BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

I have chickens at my house, which is helpful: they poop on the grasses, making them greener; they peck the poops, making them cleaner; they cluck contentedly in beautiful harmony with my brays; they leave their rainbow feathers lying about, bringing some color into an otherwise gray and green world. The chickens used to pass their days under the salmonberry bush until the day that the humans set the salmonberry bush on fire. This had something to do with some garbage the former property owners had left under the salmonberry bush, which FarmWife wanted to dig out and dispose of, and also with FarmWife's desire to make room for raspberry canes. (On a property of merely one and a quarter acres, even one bush can stand between you and your dreams.) Meanwhile—and bear with me, because I am getting to the point—FarmWife has spent the last six years battling triffid-like weeds in one other particular corner of her garden. Horsetails, which have a lovely name but are poisonous and...

Arrietty and I have mastered a powerful feat of mind control: by simultaneously whuffling at FarmWife at the bedtime check, we can obtain a third meal. I say, "hee-hee-hooo." Arrietty says, "whee-hee-huh." I flare my left nostril. Arrietty flares her right. FarmWife's heart breaks a little, and she says, "awwwwww. My poor darlings!" So far, our third meals have been pretty tiny—one handful of hay each—but it's a start. Give us time, and we'll sing her into a maniacal hay-tossing frenzy! Ears, FB & A

  When you are a 14 year-old girl with a shiny new horse, a couple of rolls of colored electrical tape, and an accomodating mother, anything is possible. This is FarmWife on Dor, whom she had owned for a total of the three days (and whom she had ridden just twice) prior to this event. FarmWife recalls that they placed second in the beginner novice division that day. 

FarmWife recently happened upon (was handed—by her mother—) a box full of hundreds—no, thousands!—of childhood photos, most of which include one or another of the cherished horses of her life. I'll share four now, but there are at least another dozen that she wants me to show you on another day: On Shorty. On Dor (a.k.a. Duracell, the coppertop) On Fahrenheit. On Isis.

Uncle Fenway said I could borrow his harness.  It's the thought that counts.  Love,

To my friend Judy, who wondered if Arrietty is exposed to too much food in the presence of a great robust chap like myself, Fenway Bartholomule: Arrietty and I are both tremendously easy keepers. We share a single slender flake of wilted brown grass hay morning and evening, and we are done with it after just a few meager moments despite both eating out of slow-feeder haynets. We then go into the pasture and graze upon the barely-existant grasses until FarmWife summons us for our Aerobic Exercise, which consists of marching up and down the scenic byroads of Wickersham. (FarmWife threatens to increase Arrietty's Aerobic Exercise by obtaining for her a harness and cart). Exercising upon a scenic byroad. (The verges around here are tantalizingly delicious, but FarmWife makes us stay on the firm and foodless lane.) Ears to you,

Up mule, down mule,  tan mule, brown mule, plump mule, round mule,  stroll through town mule. This one sparkles like a star, This one has a great big scar. Say, what delightful mules they are!  Yes, one is brown and one is tan, Both are lovely, both are grand. One's a molly, one's a john, Both mules bray a pretty song. Why do they bray a pretty song? To make you bring some hay along! They both eat hay, it makes them fat, They like to eat and stay like that. From there to here, from here to there, Lovely mules are everywhere. Every day, they like to eat. They eat, and eat, and eat, and eat. Oh me, oh my! Oh me, oh my! When eating's done, they trot on by. One has big hooves, one has small, The big-hooved one is slightly tall. Where do they trot to? I shall say. They trot into the maples' shade. We see them come, we see them go, They're sometimes fast and sometimes slow. One is high, and one is low. Both of them are truly splendid— (Sadly, n...

M.C. Escher The internet says we have had two hours of rain today, whereas reality says something along the lines of twelve or more hours of precipitation interspersed with five-minute reprieves in the form of a cold, hanging mist. This is a lesson to you—not a lesson on the terrible truths of our Northwest climate (I rather like it, actually—it makes for a very green July and August!), but a lesson on the dangers of relying on second-hand information. Go outside, I say: go outside, and see if what Google says about the world is true. I don't mean about the weather, entirely—this lesson can apply to your entire life, as well as to mine.

Ode to a Jack, my Father written by Fenway Bartholomule, June 2010 With ears so long And bray so strong  And hooves like solid rock, You were so mighty, Never flighty, Always taking stock. You never flinched when harnessed, cinched, You carried men or towed them. You hauled their loads Down dusty roads And with a bray, you told them: "I'll pull for you,  I'll pack for you, I'll cheer you when you're troubled. I'll ease your work With ears aperk I'll do it on the double." Your son—that's me— Would like to see, would like to nuzzle you— We never met but I would bet That you would like me too. I can't have come From anyone Unsavory, unhandsome . . .  In fact, dear Jack, I'd wager that You'd fetch a pretty ransom. As sire you have proved your worth The humans chose you well And when they placed you with a mare Then only time would tell But your genes pas...

Dear Editor, As a mule owner, animal lover, and columnist for the Brayer (the journal of the American Donkey and Mule Society) I have come to understand that donkeys are among the most sensitive, empathetic, and tolerant of animal species. As a blogger (at  www.braysofourlives.com ), I've been made aware by some of my readers of the donkey roping events scheduled to take place in Van Horn later this month, and I share their horror and outrage. Many donkeys suffer bone breakage, permanent physical and mental damage, or death during these events.  Yours is a city with a proud heritage, and I hope that citizens of Van Horn will celebrate by building new traditions of compassion and respect. Culberson County was instrumental in the settlement of the west, and donkeys and other equines were part of that incredible chapter in your history. Van Horn could not have become the city it is today without their contributions, and I hope that your readers will take it upon...

Good news! One month with a perfectly normal hock means I'm approved for hand-walking exercise away from home. I practiced by going to the chapel a couple of weeks ago (<1/4 mile) and came home unscathed. Yesterday, I took my wee Arrietty down to the corner past the salmon pond (~1 mile, round trip) and home again. FarmWife intended to stop with her husband and children at the salmon pond, but the setting proved too delicious and we mules were not allowed to stay admist the delectable foliage. Pressing on, we three walked a bit further while FarmHusband and the children stayed behind to play. Too delicious for we mules-of-ample-girth!  More exercise, less foliage. More exercise, less foliage. No matter how often I say it, it still sounds wrong! 

I found this on the Coal Free Bellingham website and wanted to share, as I think it captures the extraordinary qualities of this region well: A Berry Land Preamble by Rob Lewis Whereas. . . dairy farms and the Little Cheerful, sweet juice in the berries simmering in the sun; the white crown of Baker, the heron speckled flats of Lummi the wild crescent shore called Cherry Point. Here a nation local, planted in the routines of people graced by a place—and devoted to that place; pledged to land and each other; blessed by bay winds and snow geese; growing milk and blueberries and improvisational comedy; hosting epic games linking mountains to sea. And having a constitution; whereas We The People. Recognizing. . . there is an abiding arithmetic, an accounting of the soul, daily tabulating the essentials: good air, thriving children sound atmoshphere, neighborly transaction. The human and natural, people and land all bound up together in complex equation amounting at last to a rare and excep...

http://gawker.com/5917976/stephen-colberts-new-favorite-athlete-is-mitt-romneys-dressage-horse The response to Steven Colbert's recent segment (linked above) promoting dressage as the official Colbert Report Sport of the Summer is largely positive with the Chronicle of the Horse bulletin board community: in appreciation of this tongue-in-cheek gesture, they've moved to order fan  paraphernalia  in bulk. Keep your eye out for bright jerseys, beer cozies, and foam hands at dressage shows this year! I honestly wouldn't be surprised if you see some (and I double-dog-dare you to show up with some yourself. Just don't spook the horses!). One astute COTH poster noted, " I am sure there are enough CoTH-ers to who want them to justify ordering a gross of foam hands."  As for Rafalca, the dressage horse co-owned by Anne Romney, the road to the Olympics is open. Of course, per Steven, it's going to be a long drive to London on the top of Mitt's station wagon....

I've tried suggesting the addition of brunch, lunch, tea, and dessert to my menu before. I've tried it by braying, and I've tried it by whining piteously, and I've tried it through silent pleading with these big brown eyes of mine. I'm going to try once again, and I hope FarmWife listens: Woe, eight and eight are boring times to eat. Why not add meals at two and six and three? Why not add meals at one and four and five? Why not a dozen meals to fill the time? FarmWife, thou sayest I am rather plump. Thou sayest two scant flakes shall fill me up. Would thou not part with something sweet and light? A sugar cookie, or Turkish delight? Perhaps a veggie platter would suffice? Some nori rolls (no fish) with sticky rice? Thou sayest that my diet is quite rich: That water, salt, and hay will feed my flesh. Thou sayest that my mini-mule would pop If ever she and I were fed non-stop. I say, "pish posh! Why live, if not to eat?" I say, "plea...

If you aren't dead of the cuteness yet, read on!  Astute reader Sally dared to ask the million dollar question: why is Miss Arrietty G. Teaspoon so cute? Ah, it seems so simple. The answer, I'm afraid, is rather more complex than one might think! I did a little thinking with this great big brain of mine and I came up with the only plausible explanation: a perfect alignment of a dozen contributing factors. If any single ingredient had been left out of this magical recipe, we would have had a miniature mule of ordinary cuteness: a two-E Squee, if you will. Instead, we wound up with Arrietty, a twelve-E Squeeeeeeeeeeee if ever I knew one! First ingredient: a darling, dapper donkey dad. He must have been at least three times as cute as the average donkey dad. This is hard to comprehend, I know, since every donkey is pretty darned cute. Still, I promise you that it must have been true. Second ingredient: a marvelous, magnificent miniature mare mother. She must have had t...

FarmWife had a "gone all day, no time for mules" sort of day today. That's OK: instead of a "gone all day, no time for mules, poor Fenway stuck alone at home with only goats and poultry for company" day, it was a "gone all day, no time for mules, Fenway and Arrietty left behind to enjoy the abundant pleasures of being a herd of two" sort of day. That's a nice difference. Ears, Fenway Barthomule: Herdmate, Leader, Friend.

Have I raved yet about the miracle that is the public library? If not, let me do so now. What brilliant innovator of democracy decided that we should all have access to books? Books of every kind, and at no charge, and in whatever numbers we choose? That we citizens should be able to march into a building and walk out with an armful of loaned material? Take it home, enjoy it, savor it, renew it if we should so choose? Was it Benjamin Franklin? John Harvard? William Rind? Whomever they were, these pioneers of the public library, I salute them. Each time I walk through the doors of my local branch, I marvel again at this gift. Can you imagine visiting a free public auto vendor? Walk in, flash your card, and drive off in the Taurus or the Jetta of your choice? Keep it for a few weeks, then renew it and keep it for a few more? Can you imagine borrowing a food processor or a harrow or a pair of slacks? A paintbrush, a printer, a piece of art? Choosing it off the shelf, taking it home, and e...

If you were wondering, my hock is doing better this month! It's nearly normal, and I'm sound to walk, trot, and canter in the field and to walk (in hand) around Wickersham. Things aren't nearly as bad as FarmWife thought they were when she wrote this column two months ago. Reprinted from the Brayer, April 2012 The Bold and the Brayful A column by Fenway Bartholomule Dreams Deferred Spring: a maddening chorus of frogs has overtaken Wickersham. It's loud enough to drown out even the approaching freight trains. The hills are bursting into green, delicious life. The goats are bagging up, the yard is full of chicks, and FarmWife dreams of hitting the trails. Unlike last spring, and the one before it, FarmWife dreams in nostalgic, worried tones. Her dream, this time, is indefinitely deferred. Last spring, I was coming off of a winter of rest following a steroid injection into my hock, and I was in light work. Our summer plans for long distance ri...

Hello, Musée du Louvre? I have some fine art for you! (On second thought, they can't have it. They would have to wrest this painting out of FarmWife's cold, dead fingers.) Shaila Tenorio is more than my artist—she is my friend. When she visits, she tells me I am nice. She admires the bigness and the smallness of my respective nostrils and she notices the refined dignity of my majestically curving ears. She is, in addition to being a talented painter, an excellent judge of character. She likes me and my little mule too. Shaila put a lot of time, energy, and talent into creating this spectacular painting and we owe her a debt of gratitude. It will hang on FarmWife's wall for all her life, and then it will hang on the wall of her daughters and her daughters' daughters. Luckily, you too can invite me into your home! If you're interested in a fine art print on gallery wrap canvas or matte archival paper, use the dropdown menu at right to purchase directly from S...

Ree Drummond plows through life, one calf nut at a time, and an audience throngs at her feet. Whenever I mention I'm a blogger with livestock, I hear her name: "Oh, like the Pioneer Woman." People love her. A blog. One post after another. A single human voice: authentic—down-to-earth—funny—honest—real. That's what I went looking for when I first popped in to www.thepioneerwoman.com . Instead, I found a slick site packed to the brim with links. It was enough to make me dizzy! I saw a lot of pretty food, a few opportunities to buy stuff, some professional photography, and an overabundance of content that drove me away. Speaking of agoraphobia (the Pioneer Woman has it, mildly), the website left me overwhelmed. I wish I'd gotten on the Pioneer Woman train before she became a celebrity blogger and the next Martha Stewart. I really wanted to like her, but I feel like I don't even know where to begin. I don't hear you, Ree. Your voice is lost in the hubub.

Photo courtesy www.lostateminor.com My painting is here, and everything I ever thought about its potential quality is confirmed x10. You are going to flip your respective lids, my friends, when you see the monumental beauty and mulishness of this work. I don't have a good electronic reproduction of the painting yet, but I will get one for you soon. In the meantime, just imagine the prettiest thing (me) and then imagine it in a beautiful medium (oil) on a beautiful canvas. Then imagine that it is even better than that. Ears, FenBar

I woke up on my birthday, sandwiched between a really spectacular husband and a really spectacular dog, and took an inventory of my blessings: three charming daughters, a home of which I am proud, a well-groomed acre exploding with spring, two of the world's best mules, admirable friends, inspiring professional associates, a truly special community, my health, good food, and a disposition leaning more towards joyful than morose. What more could I ask for, except dessert? I got that at the Blue Mountain Grill , where my special day was honored with the world's biggest brownie (a la mode). Thank you, people of Acme, for being who you are and where you are and what you are to me. M

Birthdays and spa days go hand in hand, right? That's why I invited FarmWife to spend her special Saturday picking debris off my topline, trimming stray hairs from my mane and tail, swabbing boogers out of my nostrils, picking mud clods from my hoofies, and generally enjoying all the little pleasures of a careful grooming session. She came away looking . . . well, less than pristine, shall we say? . . . but Arrietty and I passed FarmWife's birthday in high style. Resplendent ears to you, Fenway Bartholomule