BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Fenway and Arrietty have their antlers, garlands, hats, and bells at the ready. My camera is charged up and ready to go. All that's missing is the SUN! I am going to have to do one of three things if I am going to get a properly mulish Christmas card together this year: break out a flood light, bring the mules in the house, or wait until mid-December for a break in this oppressive cloud cover. It's not the rain that bother's me, it's the darkness! Wish me luck. Tomorrow, I'll try for a photo rain or shine.

It is a fallacy for mothers and fathers of young children to think that they will have abundant free time as soon as the children are old enough to go to school. For one thing, children who are old enough to go to school are also old enough to be driven to and from drama workshops, sporting events, music lessons, parties, and sleepovers. For another thing, children who are old enough to be driven to sporting events and music lessons usually need money for such extra curriculars, which means that in between drives said mothers and fathers had better be raking in paychecks. The rewards, however, are many: I am now a mule in possession of three little girls who can enact dramas, score soccer goals, play musical instruments, etcetera, etcetera. They are proper Renaissance children.  As for me, I am still out here in the shed, sound but unridden, occasionally groomed, often visited, sometimes ignored, and always adored. The hay still comes three times per day, the removal o...

Dear friends, You, of all people, know of my splendor. Don't try to deny it—I've noticed how I take your breath away with my majestic nobility, my brayful boldness, and my artful big nostril/small nostril sneer. I don't have to explain to you what profound gladness comes from viewing my magnificence. I want everyone to know the joy that comes with looking upon me, Fenway Bartholomule, and I thought that Instagram would be a perfect vehicle for the transmission of that joy. Sadly, there is a major wrinkle in this generous plan. Four wrinkles, really, and they are as follows: 1) vodka beverages 2) ladies' footwear 3) antlered deer 4) off road vehicles. Friends, FarmWife can Tag and Tag and Tag her photos until the cows come home* but I promise you she cannot saturate Instagram with images of me, Fenway Bartholomule: the interwebs are  already flooded with gingery mules in copper cups, strappy mules on ladies' feet, dead mule deer next to gun-toting lads, an...

My favorite tag company, Fetching Tags, is giving something away every day from Nov. 7 to Dec. 7! You can join in the fun and enter to win at www.facebook.com/fetchingtags. I have a couple of Fetching Tags of my own. My taglines? "I am Mule, Hear Me Bray", for starters, and "Ears to You!" My "I am Mule" tag is currently on loan to Arrietty, who doesn't have a tag of her own yet. When she gets one, it shall say "Warm as toast and smaller than most." (If that doesn't ring a bell, you obviously haven't been reading enough classic picture books.) Paisley's tag says "One sandwich short of a picnic," but it's currently riveted Double Agent style to his Paco Collar so that all that's visible is his name and number. Clover has a wee little collar with a wee little tag—no room for a tagline, but she does have a cute little shamrock on there—and Missy's, of course, reads "Empress of All the Light Touches....

Just in case I die of starvation, I wanted to put this photo out there on the internet. It is evidence of my advanced state of emaciation. Can you believe FarmWife says I don't need another meal until dinner time?

FarmWife has been dying to do a full scale muley spa day this autumn, but with mud on the ground and temperatures hovering around freezing it just hasn't fit in. She did, however, pick up on a psychic distress call from me the other day - she grabbed her Detangle & Shine solution (a birthday present from the folks at Simple Relief) and strode out here to the paddock with one thought in mind. "I bet my dear Mr. Bartholomule could use a tail-brushing." Well, I sure could have! Imagine her surprise when I showed up dragging half the forest behind me! OK, I exaggerate. It was one bramble, but what a bramble it was! FarmWife couldn't have wished for a better trial for my new beauty products, and she leapt into action. Spritz, fingercomb, untwist, unwind, separate, shake out, and smooth - in five minutes' time, she had kicked that bramble's butt and returned my tail to its usual voluptuous glory. The Detangle & Shine worked marvelously on my tail, which beg...

Cow sitting has been in turns wonderful and heartwrenching. My good friend D., a Jersey cow, fell terribly ill from postparturient hypocalcemia on Saturday night 24 hours after calving. She and her calf are both alive and well today but the whole episode, from calving through late-night vet visit, has renewed my passion for a vegan life. I was strictly vegan as a teen but, in this decade, have had frequent guilty lapses. By "lapses," I mean that I gave up considering myself vegan at all (though I haven't eaten a mammal since 1987). I've tried to justify a more mainstream diet by keeping my own goats and hens, buying milk from neighbors, and consuming locally-grown dairy. That doesn't quite cut it for me anymore, as there are still culls who suffer in this exploitative system. Even the act of buying sexed chicks means that an equal number of male chicks die. I realized, last week, that the answer is right in front of me and has been since I first read "Diet fo...

President Harry S. Truman at the Missouri State Fair with the State Champion mule team, c. 1955. Caption credit: www.dailyyonder.com. Photo credit: University of Missouri Dear friends, I have a dreadful bit of news: I, Fenway Bartholomule, am being barred from the polls despite having reached the age of majority (18, last month, and thank you for the birthday wishes!) on the grounds of my non-human status. The speciesist policies of this so-called "democracy" are shameful and repellant. FarmWife says that voting is best reserved for those with opposable thumbs, but that my cries of bias against the four-footed do in fact ring true. She herself is a supporter of animal rights, and has even renewed her once-lapsed pledge of veganism after falling more deeply in love than ever with the neighbor's dairy cow. Too many cattle live short, uncomfortable lives. FarmWife wants cattle in her life as friends, not food. FarmWife says that not all animal-keeping is exploita...

Attentive readers will remember that my FarmWife is in love with our neighbors' cow. This cow, D, is very special to FarmWife, but I don't mind: I'm lucky to have a human with such a capacity for love. FarmWife is sometimes left in charge of D and a handful of other cattle (also nice, but not like d) while their owners are away. In that capacity, FarmWife recently had the exciting and tremendous responsibility of midwifing for D during the birth of a calf. The little one is perfectly beautiful in every way. FarmWife hopes someday to have a Jersey cow of her own, or a pair of little Jersey steers to raise into working oxen. For now, she enjoys the cows of others. FarmWife says she loves this cow, D, as much as she loves me, Fenway Bartholomule, and that sitting with her while she gave birth was a great honor. Since I shall certainly never give birth, I'm glad FarmWife got to have that experience with a different animal friend. Ears, FenBar