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 rides and overnight packing trips were deferred, and we
stuck to light exercise. The spring before, my thoroughpin acted up
for the first time, swelling from the size of a tea bag to the size
of a softball over the course of about a month. I had the summer of
2010 off completely.
I
spent this winter on complete rest (she last rode me before
Halloween), and FarmWife took up jogging (not as much fun) and
shifted her dreaming towards a less ambitious equestrian goal: a
packing trip, sans riders, where I'd go along in the role of
companion and tent-toter. It turns out I'm not sound enough even for
that.
FarmWife
and my veterinarian have changed their focus, this spring, from
trying to get me riding-sound to trying to keep me pasture-sound.
That means I get to stay home, stay slim, and load up on MSM and
glucosamine-laced snacks. FarmWife says that keeping my weight down
is key, but I am forbidden from exercising even a bit: turnout in my
one acre field is all the freedom I get.
I
am 18 years old this year, and FarmWife hopes to keep me around for
another 50 years. That means we have to take care of this leg,
because we all know the old adage: “no leg, no mule.”
FarmWife
has been paying a little less attention to my blog this month, but
she has an excuse. She's job hunting, because an unsound mule needs
more veterinary attention than a sound one and because her long-range
goal of having me PLUS a mount requires cold, hard cash. She's
window-shopping, cruising the classifieds for my someday future
pasture buddy, even though she's not in a position to buy just yet.
And she's grieving, a little.
FarmWife
set out a couple of months ago to write a book about her life. This
is how it was to begin:
“This
was going to be a story about a place. It was going to be about one
small, green acre, but also about the world around Bent Barrow Farm:
the half-logged hills and the noisy wetlands, the slow-moving trains
and the meandering trails down which my mule, Fenway, takes me. And
then this looked in danger of becoming a story about Fenway, but also
about how I am now that I know him, and who I am now that I live
here. Maybe, after all, it is going to be a story about happiness.”
Happiness
is a powerful thing: when you've got it, it feeds itself. It's
contagious. It spreads like wildfire, within and outside you. Once
lost, that's a hard feeling to get back.
FarmWife
will get her happiness back. I'll bray to her, morning noon and
night. I'll bury my noble head upon her chest. I'll lower my ears,
knowing that a good rub of the old auricles is good for the rubber
AND the rubbee. I'll catch her eye with mine, and I'll remind her: I
am still your very best friend.
Ears,
Fenway
Bartholomule
www.braysofourlives.com
Comments
Post a Comment
Thanks in Advance for Your Mulish Opinion!