BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Well, my twelve days of Christmas thing sure fell flat. It is just so hard for FarmWife to find time for blogging with her dear old mule when she's also busy with three jobs, three kids, and a house. Here's my new years resolution: I may not be the one of the world's best bloggers anymore, but I do resolve to continue to be one of the world's best mules. And, if anything awesome happens, I promise I'll tell you. I still love you more than words can bray. Ears, Fenway Bartholomule.

♫ On the ninth day of Christmas, my FarmWife gave to me nine bites of carrot, eight hugs and kisses, seven lights a-shining, six apple slices, five meager graaaains . . . four big blue buckets, three flakes of hay, two little tigers, and a chihuahua in a tree. ♫

♫ On the eighth day of Christmas, my FarmWife gave to me eight hugs and kisses, seven lights a-shining, six apple slices, five meager graaaains . . . four big blue buckets, three flakes of hay, two little tigers, and a chihuahua in a tree. ♫

♫ On the seventh day of Christmas, my FarmWife gave to me seven lights a-shining, six apple slices, five meager graaaains . . . four big blue buckets, three flakes of hay, two little tigers, and a chihuahua in a tree. ♫

♫ On the sixth day of Christmas, my FarmWife gave to me six apple slices, five meager graaaains . . .  four big blue buckets, three flakes of hay, two little tigers, and a chihuahua in a tree. ♫

♫ On the fifth day of Christmas, my FarmWife gave to me five meager graaaains . . .  four big blue buckets, three flakes of hay, two little tigers, and a chihuahua in a tree. ♫

♫ On the fourth day of Christmas, my FarmWife gave to me four big blue buckets, three flakes of hay, two little tigers, and a chihuahua in a tree. ♫

♫ On the third day of Christmas, my FarmWife gave to me three flakes of hay, two little tigers, and a chihuahua in a tree. ♫

♫ On the second day of Christmas, my FarmWife gave to me two little tigers and a chihuahua in a tree. ♫

♫  On the first day of Christmas, my FarmWife gave to me a chihuahua in a tree.  ♫

There is no longer any question as to  whether Arrietty will hog the show every time FarmWife brings out the camera. She will. She does. And always with a smile!

FarmWife passed one of the most enjoyable afternoons in recent memory with the 190+ porcine residents of Pigs Peace Sanctuary in Stanwood, Washington. There, she saw a barnyard which was notably cleaner than her own, beautiful rolling green pastures full of happy, romping oinkers, a harmonious herd of big and small, old and young, white and black, sleek and fat, slow and fast pigs. She met a pig who had been born with three legs. She met pigs that weighed more than me, Fenway Bartholomule. She met pigs who slept so deeply in their orchard grass beds that all one could see were little snorkel-snouts sticking out of the hay. If you are ever in need of some inspiration to value animal lives alongside your own, visit Pigs Peace Sanctuary. It makes it ever so clear that you humans and we equines are co-citizens with our fellow sentient earthlings. FenBar

This is me, Fenway, reacting to the presence of a camera.  This is my sweetheart, Miss Arrietty, reacting to the presence of a camera.  I'm not naming names, but someone is a bit of a show off.  Love, FB 

It's been a while since we talked, but in that time the demographics of Bent Barrow Farm have radically shifted. This summer, a weasel struck (nine hens dead in 72 hours), then we found other homes for all but our oldest remaining chickens. Our barnyard fowl population is now down from nineteen to three (Chanticleer, Daphne, and Feather). Those three are moving to Granny Joan's house this fall. Daphne and Chanticleer were originally hers before they moved here 7 years ago and she says she would be glad to take them back. It is just as well: the humans need more room to grow delicious apples, pears, carrots, and similar delectable edibles for me, Fenway Bartholomule. Here's the permanent cast: Me, Fenway Bartholomule. I am the king and benign overlord of Bent Barrow Farm. I am in charge of eating the grasses, braying the news of the day, and standing vigilant against suspicious atmospheric apparitions*. (*I am afraid of rainbows). My darling, Miss Arrietty G. Teaspoon....

It's International Mole and Mule Day, the day when chemists the world over celebrate Avogadro's number while Friends of the Muleness celebrate me, Fenway Bartholomule! Did you know I turned 19 this month? We don't know the date, so the 23rd must do.  This year, FarmWife "works six days a week" Jones honored the moment with two pears and a quick ear rub. Ho, hum. You know who REALLY came through for me today? Lynda at Simple Relief ! She sent me a big care package full of my favorite products. (I'll tell you a really embarrassing truth: I used to have the grossest dandruff on my dock before I started getting my tail moistened with Simple Relief Detangle & Shine.) I know I've been falling down on the blogging job lately, but bear with me. I love and value each of my readers—nay, I shall call you my friends . I will write when I can, but in the meantime know that I am well and well-loved! FarmWife is busy working here and here , but don't doubt ...

Purina Goat Chow? No thank you. Equine Senior? Ho, hum. Corn, oats, and barley? Blech. Alfalfa pellets? Yaaaawwwwn. Asphalt shingles and moldy tar paper? NOW we're talking! Missy hasn't been so excited about a meal in ages. Good thing FarmWife was near the all-you-can-eat garbage buffet before Missy overate! Love, FenBar P.S. Our housetiger, Townes, is easier to feed. His challenge is that he is ALWAYS hungry. Here, you see that he has asked for, and received, a BIGGER bowl of cat food. "Ah," he said. "Finally, a dish my size!"

We are well situated here at Bent Barrow Farm in regard to nature. While our 113 year-old farmhouse sits on what many would consider a small parcel, we do have what feels like the world's biggest backyard. Bent Barrow Farm sits in the South Fork Valley of Western Washington's Cascade foothills, and with a fit mount and a weekend's time, I could ride out on our neighborhood logging roads and deer paths and make it as far as the 7,000-ft. Twin Sisters. With a free summer, a game mule, and a machete, I could traverse the neglected Pacific Northwest Trail to Montana. With a free hour, however, I am limited to difficult footing or very short spurs that end, like the pipeline trail, at gravelly drop-offs or precipitous, densely forested slopes. There’s the trail that ends above Ennis Creek, its gravel cul-de-sac offering little pleasure beside the burbling sound of the falls below, and the one that ends on the rise below Lyman Hill’s impassable north slope. Lyman Hill is just a l...

Bent Barrow Farm “ 'Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” This story begins with this farm, if I can call it that. This farm sits on just 1.25 acres, but it’s all pasture and orchard and barn and garden and coop. I think it qualifies at least as a hobby farm, except that I resent that phrase. It brings to mind hobby farmers, whom I think of as people with more money than me. Perhaps this is no farm but just a rural home, with a rural yard full of rural pets—mules, goat, rabbits, chickens. I start by telling you about this place because it is here that I learned to be happy. When we bought Bent Barrow Farm (known then merely as the Omey’s place or, to some of the older neighbors, the Hathaway house, or, to some of the even older ones, the old electrical transform station), I was not happy. I was quite distressed, actually. We were expecting a third child—all of them unplanned, and through no lack of attempts at c...

Here's the second installment of the book I was writing. —Marnie Roommates, continued My cockatiels lived at that time in their own outbuilding, a flight cage of about a hundred square feet, and so Rhody, the aptly named Rhode Island Red, was the little house's only resident fowl. She had lost a leg after becoming entangled in chicken wire and had thereafter been brutally ostracized by her fellow hens. Chicken flocks, it turns out, are not equal opportunity organizations. She passed her remaining days in the yard with my three dabbling ducks and slept, each night, on my the headboard of my bed: butt facing out, paper beneath. The ducks slept in a doghouse out of doors, because even I had my limits. My Siamese cat—Mewzetica—and three guinea pigs—Piglet, Nellie, and Iggy Tribble—rounded out the mammal population of my little house until I brought home three mice and a pony. The pony, Sir Lancelittle, had spent his first five years of life tied to the outside of a lion cage,...

Let's file this under "old but good." This is an excerpt from the book that I was writing, and which I ought to get back to. I'll parcel it out to you over the next few days, and you can see if you think it's worth finishing. Some material may have appeared on my blog, Puddle Run, before. It's a mostly true story.   Marnie Roommates When I was about twelve years old, my mother and stepfather let me move into the guest house at Cultus Bay Road. The two story building, 100 yards removed from our squat shingled house, had linoleum floors, a kitchenette, and a fenced yard for my Indian runner ducks. This was my home for a brief but formative time, the years after my family moved to the country but before my Irish wolfhound was framed for murder. At the end of those years, my mom moved me to a five acre parcel off Lone Lake Road where we could afford a barn or a house, but not both, and where we therefore lived in a barn for the rest of ...

I worked from home today (Labor Day + a cold = a great excuse to stay in) and enjoyed the time with my pets: Clover, who DOES have a tail (it's just wagging too fast to see) Paisley, who ALWAYS looks this amazed Kevin, who is THIS wonderful (stretching arms wide). Marnie

Dear friends and readers, I'm planning on deleting  www.puddlerun.com ,  www.commissionedpoetry.com , and  www.commissionedpoetry.blogspo t.com . The archives of those blogs are now intermingled with Fenway's posts here at  www.BraysOfOurLives.com . I hope that the disadvantages of broken links and changing voices will be outweighed by the advantage of having a streamlined online identity and a chance to share photos, stories, poems, and updates in one place with my largest audience. The tone and character of Brays of Our Lives may evolve, and I thank my friends and readers in advance for going with me on this next phase of my journey as a writer.  Fenway is still here, hale, and hearty, and still serves as my muse. You'll hear from him from time to time! Marnie Jones

Fine company indeed! The lovely Miss Arrietty G. Teaspoon is my constant and affectionate companion. Dear friends, My excuse? Sunny days, dusty hides, tender grasses, and the pleasure of fine company. It's hard to blog in these lazy days of summer. FarmWife's excuse? She's been busy settling into a really exciting new position as Communications Manager for the Whidbey Institute, a Clinton, Washington-based organization which works in the three areas of leadership transformation, community vitality, and sustainable action. The half-time position compliments her work at the Humane Society of Skagit Valley, where she is continuing, and gives her a sense of balance in her work with animals, people, and the earth. We have a new schedule, and it's a far sight more predictable than the one we had before. It includes blogging time. You will hear from me again soon. Ears, FenBar

Robin: "Mama, why are you so boring?" Mama: "Because I have a lot of jobs." I'm writing this morning to share the very happy news that I am transitioning into the Communications Manager role at Whidbey Institute, a South Whidbey organization dedicated to work in leadership transformation, sustainable action, and community vitalization. After my first day on the job I can say with utter conviction that the people, place, and work are inspiring and beautiful. I'm continuing in my half-time role at the Humane Society of Skagit Valley as Webmaster/Publications Editor, but stepping back from my broad role at the Timber Framers Guild (though I will continue as their newsletter layout editor for the immediate future, as it's work I very much enjoy). I am officially closing my poetry order form and getting out of the freelancing business. Robin, that should make me a little less boring! Just give me a week or two to tie up loose ends and then you'll have you...

"I'll tell you where to stick your 'no white after Labor Day' rule!" —Missy, Empress of All the Light Touches Whatever it is that compels you human Americans to celebrate freedom by recreating the terror of war in your own backyards each July 4th evades my understanding. I, Fenway Bartholomule, am an unflappable mule (except when visited upon by an Avenging Phantom Line from Beyond or a Place where One is Taken to Die ) and was therefore unfazed by the sounds, smells, and sights of your explosive festivities, but poor FarmWife spent the evening holding her trembling chihuahua and experiencing strong feelings of resentment. FarmWife associates July 4th with bad things: the memory of her childhood dog Brumby, for instance, running away and being hit by a car (he suffered a collapsed lung, but survived).  Luckily, Labor Day is coming! I think that's when the working people of the world celebrate their hard work by not working. Oh, and not wearing white dr...

Semi-retirement means carrying medium-sized children . . . And semi-retirement means carrying little children . . .  And semi-retirement means carrying great big children who are hardly even children anymore . . .  And semi-retirement means lots of hugs. I can go with that. 

Did you know that I, Fenway Bartholomule, have some of the best human grannies in the whole wide world? Well, now you do. My human Granny Joan loves animals so much that she is even bringing a scraggly little kitten back to Washington from Florida after finding him on a business trip! He needed someone, and the only someone who stepped up was a woman who lived 3500 miles away. He's been to the vet, and is vaccinated, neutered, FeLV/FIV tested negative. He's going to be looking for a home in Cascadia after every Miami-area rescue refused him admission. Granny is also kind to hoofbeasts, and has opened her doors to cattle, goats, horses, llamas, dogs, cats, and birds in need! In fact, it was SHE who fronted the cash to make me a permanent member of the Jones household, after seeing how her adult daughter FarmWife had fallen head over heels for me. My human Grammy Jane is pretty swell, too. She's the sort of woman who stops at the grocery shop for carrots after a full day...

The oldest human filly is home for the summer from her other home (with dad) and I have this to say: she's nearly as tall as FarmWife, just as nice as FarmWife, and just as good at delivering hay, ear rubs, and scratches. It's official: I've taken the big step of including the oldest human filly in my circle of People Who Get Brayed At (PWGBA). The PWGBA have a very special place in my heart. The middle human filly asks when, and by what means, she can become a PWGBA. FarmWife tells her that regular barn visits, occasional treats, and consistently kind actions will get her into the club. It will, middle filly. It will. Ears, FenBar

Ok, so it's not officially summer yet . . . but the living IS easy! I am relishing my role as Official Farm Greeter and Pasture Ornament. Could I be any more lovely, really? FarmWife is using every spare minute of computer time to push pets for the folks at www.skagithumane.com, but we assure you that we're still brayful, hayful, and well! I hope your Solstice weekend is joyful, and promises of an excellent summer to come!

I'm distancing myself more and more from mainstream horse industry thinking. In opposition to some vegans, I DO think it's humane to ride a horse if the discipline suits his physical and mental aptitudes and if you're willing to keep him on as a retired companion when his useful life is through. However, when riders carry on about the RARA's threat to equestrian sport, I think to myself that I would GLADLY trade my right to ride, harness, breed, or otherwise use my animals if the tradeoff was a fulfillment of Radical Animal Rights Activist goals: an end to subjugation. It's not a slippery slope into restrictions on OUR freedom. It's an overdue journey towards the abolition of speciesism and slavery. Yes, there are animals that need protection more immediately than the eventers and the carriage horses. Still, if we lose eventing and urban carriage rides as part of a societal shift away from institutionalized animal abuse, it's a worthy trade. Oh, and I say th...

Now THAT's a confused llama. Not my image. I found it on www.fantageolives.blogspot.com, which probably found it somewhere else.  I was taking a look at the recent searches that led folks to Brays of Our Lives dot com (and yes, people, I do see what you type into Google so please keep your strangest queries to yourselves!) Here are some highlights: Confused llamas Furry question mark Looks like we have a badass here Advantages of riding donkeys نقاشی پنجره That last one had me pretty excited, as I was sure it would translate as "mount of the gods" or "equine who surpasses all others and breathes the fire of heaven from his majestic nostrils". Turns out it's Persian for "window painting."  Ah, well.  A window would look nice with me painted on it.  FenBar

Well, it's official. I am no longer skinny. After losing a lot of weight this winter (we're guessing it was due to encysted strongyles), I'm now round as pound, plump as a lump, fat as a cat, and what have you.  I not too  fat, mind you—I just have well-sprung ribs, so you can forget that pregnancy joke right now! Anyway, the long and short of it is that I am no longer in need of massive quantities of concentrates. I've had my equine senior/timothy pellet combo reduced from four pounds to two pounds a day and FarmWife says it's going to go away completely in not too long. Ah, it was fun being a hard keeper while it lasted. FarmWife says that next year we're doing a Quest dewormer in the fall and a middle weight blanket all winter just in case. Ears, FenBar

A girl after her mother's heart! Here's my middle human filly's second grade math work: Problem: write a story that matches the problem: 42+53. Solution: "I have 42 mules. I get 53 more. How many mules do I have now?" That's my girl. Keep dreaming big, kiddo!

I turned 34 this morning. Cheers, Joan! Cheers, Tim! Thanks for bringing me into the world. I decided a few days ago that it's a lot better to be 34, out of shape, and just starting on the road to fitness than 40, 50, or 60, out of shape, and just starting on the road to fitness. I have, therefore, gone on three jogs in the last five days. Being a person of fast metabolism, I can be deceptively out of shape without standing out to my friends and loved ones as a person in poor condition. Believe me. I am a person in poor condition. Today, I had a major fitness milestone: I ran so far, and so fast, that my fat chihuahua started to pant and lag behind. Small steps. (Apparently she, too, is a person in poor condition. With shorter legs.) Here's one small miracle: my right knee, which I injured in 1998 in a collision with an Irish Wolfhound and which has no anterior cruciate ligament (total tear), had a transformative experience last fall and I am like a new person! This  experience...

Today is FarmWife's birthday. I heard we were going bowling and then out for sushi. I was so excited that I got all dressed up: new mane turrets, fresh fly spray (it's organic), the whole 9 yards. I heard that the sushi place had one of those fun little conveyor belts where an astute vegan can grab an order of avocado and cucumber maki while it rolls past, and the less discerning diner can go for the mystery rolls with tentacles sticking out. Fun times. Well, do you know what? It turns out that mules are not allowed at 20th Century Lanes OR at Kuru Kuru! I am being left behind. Here is my left behind face. I think I am going to go roll in the dust. That will teach them to celebrate without me. Ears, Fenway Bartholomule

There is a rumor afoot (ahoof?) that Missy, Arrietty and I are going to get marvelous, magical BATHS on Wednesday! You see, temperatures are due to soar around 80 degrees fahrenheit this week, and that's an opportunity that can't be missed. Missy is small enough to squeeze into the heated indoor bathroom in a pinch, but for us mules there's no choice but to bathe au naturale in the wild outdoors. Warm weather is essential. Why do we need baths, you ask? Well, there's the dirt, the dust, the grease, the grime, and the accumulated detritus that has resulted from passing the last who-knows-how-many months as a barnyard animal. There's the long and scraggly winter hair, which is falling out but not fast enough. And there's the fun of it. If there's anything more adorable than me, Fenway Bartholomule, it's me in a bubble hat. Ears to you! We promise pictures on the big day! FenBar Bath Day 2012

This has been the Month of FarmWife: she talks about HER new job, HER house repairs, HER dentist appointments, HER PTA obligations, HER very busy schedule. Not a lot about ME on that list, and that's my excuse for being a very quiet mule. You may recall that I have been forbidden from laying hooves on the MacBook, so without her transcription services I'm hardly able to blog. I just wanted to let you know that I am doing very, very well. I have a new trimmer coming out next week to have a look at the ol' hoofies, but I've been sound this spring. I've regained all the weight I lost, and we thank the Panacur PowerPak for that. I like the organic lifestyle as well as the next guy, but sometimes you've just got to poison a few parasites to get by! Arrietty, Missy and I are passing our days in complete tranquility, save for a little bit of deer fly trouble, and things in the barnyard really couldn't be more peaceful. FarmWife still shows up every day to curry...

Dear Readers, I, Fenway Bartholomule, cordially invite you to steel yourselves against an onslaught of beautiful, affectionate, darling pets, all in desperate need of loving homes, before visiting www.skagithumane.com . This is a website for which FarmWife is newly responsible. She's been busy getting all of their deserving dogs, cats, bunnies, and birds listed online these past few weeks, and that's my excuse for the long silence. Know that in the meantime I have been well. Yes, I have had to pass many lonely hours without FarmWife's company, but at least I've passed them with Missy and Arrietty and with mouth buried in hay. I'm nearly ready to unveil Summer Coat 2013, which is due to be just as shiny and splendiferous as Summer Coats 2012 and 2011 were, and Arrietty is about ready to unveil her wonderful new Fetching Tag! It reads, "A.G. Teaspoon" on one side and "Short & Sweet" on the other. We also have new chicks to show off ("hom...

There's no gratitude like dog gratitude. There is no happiness like dog happiness, especially when it's a dog who has been locked in a six by twelve box and is suddenly set free to romp, run, roll, cuddle, and play for twenty minutes. It's faces like this one that make my new job at the humane society so very satisfying!