BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

I have the best of friends around me here at this new home! I have my human Granny and Gruncle (is he a grandpa? Is he an uncle? I'm not sure), I have a horse companion beside me and two other horse companions a little further down the row, and I have a wonderful assortment of ponies, miniature horses, and miniature mules darting about and making adorable little sounds with their adorable little faces at all hours of the day and night. It's really quite lovely. I have chickens and rabbits and cats to befriend, and I have visits from the Woman and her blue dog.  My friend Scotty, who lives on my right, is a wise old chestnut with a soothing presence. My friend Cadbury, who lives on my left, is a fiery miniature stallion (a rescue, for whom gelding was medically contraindicated) who ensures our life is never boring.  I miss one person from the boarding barn—a sweet little girl who was the very first person I came to trust in that new place. She was kind to me from the outset, an...

 Human here, to give you the scoop on Songbird. He is shiny, sweet, and wonderful . . . and a little bit broken hearted. (Fenway was once, too.) As I've gotten to know him more over the last month, I've come to understand that he associates humans with unpleasantness, at least, and suffering, at worst. He has some gnarly scars. He flinches away from touch, though he warms up quickly when treats are involved. He's quite a foodie. He's easily startled. He's alert, and vigilant. He doesn't always feel safe. He also really likes it at my mom's house, which has a slower pace than the wonderful boarding and lesson barn where he lived in June. He appreciates the predictable routine, the long quiet afternoons, and the retired horses who give him company. He has flattened the grass under the big cedar out back and created nests to rest in. The soft footing at my mom's is better for his newly bare feet. He is starting to believe he'll be ok.  I have ridden him...

I moved in with my grandmother! I think she's my grandmother. She's the mother of the woman who looks after me. I am told that this will be my permanent home until the woman buys me some acreage of my own.  It is not hard to be patient here . . . this place features equine companionship, delectable grasses, rural privacy, and access to trails that I have yet to explore. I have met the DOG, who I'm told is the woman's other best friend, and he is open to going adventuring with me. I am content, and grateful for this grandmother's hospitality. Ears to you, Songbird

The woman introduced me to my Auntie today—I am not sure how we're related, and we don't have much of a family resemblance except in our temperaments, but if the woman says this hoof trimmer is part of my family then I am willing to take her word for it! She says, "she's your Auntie in spirit, Bird," which I thought meant that she would be my Auntie even if I were dead, but which the woman says means that we are not actually related.  My Auntie trimmed my hooves and told me they are going to be A-OK. She complimented me on my fine face and my kind eyes and my generally pleasant demeanor. She gave me a low-sugar mule cookie and she told me I would be fine.  This Auntie is famous from Fenway Bartholomule's blogging days, and I am happy to say that I, too, received a wonderful mani-pedi! https://www.braysofourlives.org/2015/02/mani-pedi.html

  This is a very short little song, but it's long enough for you to get a sense of my technique and range. Listen for the little chirps at the end, which the woman finds so endearing. There's good reason my new name is Songbird!  

Dr. H, Equine Dentist to the Stars, came out today and polished my pearly whites. I know you know I've been excited, so let me just break the bad news to you first—she didn't give me a choice of toothpaste flavors, and I didn't get a toothbrush or a sticker to keep afterwards. I did get some compliments, though, so it wasn't all bad! I was a little nervous at first. Watching my friend Bongo stagger out of there, drooling, like he'd just been KO'd by a prize fighter . . . that made me a little nervous. Watching Dr. H adjusting her rolling cart of torture implements . . . that made me a little nervous. Watching Dr. H and her trusty assistant greet me kindly, and listen to my heart and lungs, and tell me I was lovely . . . that put me at ease. So at ease, in fact, that I voluntarily walked into the WEIRDEST situation I think I have ever encountered.  First, they must have injected me with something—I barely felt the needle, but I sure felt the effects! The woman—my...

  This woman, my new friend, is of the admirable opinion that part of being a friend to a mule is providing him with all the things he needs to help his body feel good—balanced hoof care, tooth floating, good nutrition, veterinary care, and—for a mule who moves a little out of balance, with some funny feelings in his hindquarters—body work from equine massage therapists. I had an appointment to have my muscles worked over by just such a therapist the other day, but it didn't work out.  In all fairness, it wasn't quite an appointment. It was more of a, "if you have time, I know you're busy, could you stop by?" plan. So maybe it was a wish, rather than a plan. But in any case, it was a thing that was possibly going to happen and then it didn't happen and I got stuck with an average, run-of-the mill currying instead of the hot stone massage I expected.  I did get my shoes pulled, which is progress, and I am still going to see the dentist on Monday. If they give m...

The woman had a lot of interview questions for me when we met—simple questions, like "do you like ear rubs?" and "do you permit yourself to be moved hither and thither in a horse trailer?", but also complex questions like, "do you move with eager curiosity into deep dark forests and around mysterious bends?" and, "will you mind if I sometimes forget myself and call you Gussykins?"  I assured her that yes, I do indeed move with eager curiosity! I do indeed permit myself to be moved in horse trailers, and I do indeed like ear rubs rather a lot. I do even permit myself to be called Gussykins, or Snuffy, or even Boopsnoot.  Today, we went out on our first ever hike on the trails behind this boarding stable. The trails were very enticing, promising all manner of adventures. We are not yet going riding together, as the woman is of the opinion that I need my feet trimmed and my general wellbeing assessed before attempting athletic feats. I have a funny ...

There is an equine dentist coming to see me on Monday! I’m told that seeing the dentist is a normal thing for a mule to do, but this will be my first time. I hope I don’t need braces! I’ll let you know how it goes.  I hear some dentists give out toothbrushes, or even stickers. Do you think I can ask for a sticker, or is that silly for a teenager like me?  Shinefully yours,  GusBird

They told me I was moving to an island. I pictured mai tais and sea breezes and delicious grass skirts. I pictured heat. Then, they told me, "no, Gus. It is not that kind of island. On this island there are rocky shores and bunny rabbits and cool mossy pathways under giant cedar trees."  I'm cool, I go with the flow. Cool mossy pathways sound delicious too! I was all for this new kind of island. Well, I am here now and I can tell you there are no mai tais. There are no sea breezes. There are no delicious grass skirts, although there are some delicious grass meadows. The rocks on the shore are 300 degrees in the sun. The bunny rabbits have all fainted from the heat and the cool mossy pathways under giant cedar trees are being desperately watered by concerned stewards.  The only member of the family who really likes this 100+ degree heat is the avocado tree (pictured), who has finally moved out of the window and onto the porch for the first time in her short life. She seems...

  When I first moved into this boarding barn, people were asking three primary questions:  1) do you understand electric fencing?  2) how long might you stay?  3) will your name stay "Gus"?  Now that folks have had a few days to get to know me, I'm steeling myself for new questions:  1) how can we avoid burning our eyes on your blinding SHINE?  2) will our mares ever settle down with someone so short, dark, and handsome in their midst?  3) can I have a recording of your tuneful bray to use as my ringtone?  I think I like these people and I'm almost certain they like me. Yours cutely, GusBird

The fences here are made of danger string, but I've got it figured out. There's a roan horse beside me, and when he touched the danger string it bit him. Here's where the story gets strange: he backed away, and it did not pursue . Though it is clearly predatory, I think it is rooted in place—it may be some kind of carnivorous plant.  Thank goodness that's established. Now that I understand that the fences are a look-but-don't-touch affair, I get daily turnout in a lovely grassy field. My neighbors are getting used to my unsettling handsomeness and my soprano voice ( not unlike this guy's ).    I was supposed to get a pedicure today but thanks to some inconveniences related to this being an island (which I think means we're floating at sea?) I got a nice massage and some clicker loading training instead. I have begun to understand that when the new woman accidentally makes an unfortunate clicking sound with her mouth, she follows it immediately with a gift o...

Pictured, the boopable snoot for which I am known. I am Songbird Sparrowgrass. If that’s not to your taste, you may call me GusBird Boopsnoot. Some call me Gus, or Bird. I am in between families right now, and in between names. I like this new family, and I think I shall stay.  I grew up in Kentucky, where I pulled wagons and carried riders. You can see me doing those things here, on a YouTube page maintained by someone I once knew. I don’t like the word owner, so let’s not call him that.  I lived in Rochester, Washington for the past year, where I learned that donkeys are friends and that horse shoes can be put on in a number of ways, including sideways (see below). That family was kind to me, but they didn’t provide me with a Blogger account or the services of a transcriptionist. This new gig seems to be a bit of a promotion, since it includes established social media accounts, the shiny new url "braysofourlives.org", plus meals and accommodations.  This move, for me, ...

This blog has been through a lot of changes: first it was Fenway's Brays of Our Lives , then it was my Puddle Run , then it was the two of them smashed together, then it was Notes from the Ark , and now it's Brays of Our Lives again, but with a twist: there's a new blogger in town.  I'll let him introduce himself as soon as he's good and ready. In the meantime, I will tantalize you with this: he's 14.3 hands tall, 13 years old, and in possession of the most splendiferous ears and the most boopable snoot. He joined our family yesterday, on Summer Solstice, 3 years and 19 days after we lost my dear Fenway.  It feels good to have a mule in my life again.  Ears to you, Marnie (Pictured: the new kid in a pipe corral paddock, since it seems that in his 13 years he has not yet learned about electric fencing. He is currently boarded at a place where he'll need to know about danger string. We will work on it.) 

  You may recall that when we lived on Bent Barrow Farm, Fenway Bartholomule was astounded by the fact that we kept little tigers in our house. Those ferocious felines—majestic Desmond and comical Townes—have both sadly passed away, but about four years ago two new wonderful cats entered our lives.  While we did not know them when they were small, we did recently receive this kitten photo from their first family: I'll wait a moment while you recover from the cuteness. . . . Carrying on . . . Milo is a dog in a cat suit, a burly fluff ball, a Saint Bernard with a feline figure. If he were a human he'd probably look like James Corden and walk around in cute slouchy sweaters. He has 9 of 9 lives remaining, and plans to spend 8 of them lounging in bed and 1 of them chasing twist ties under the refrigerator.  Tiger is a cattish cat, regal and poised in almost every way. He has used up at least 3 of his 9 lives and holds the record in our family for most hospitalizations, both ...

Humans, meet Bleu. Bleu, meet humans.  Bleu is diplomacy in action—a real mule among dogs. He came here from Texas in October 2020, seamlessly integrating into the family. He has not yet put a paw wrong, but he HAS put a tooth wrong—he has chewed a TV remote, several leashes and harnesses, two tasty shoes, several couch cushions, and the interior of one Honda SUV. He is now closely supervised most of the time, which suits him just fine and seems to be the solution to his destructive chewing.  Bleu is half Australian Cattle Dog, half Australian Shepherd—otherwise known as a Texas Heeler.  Russell, pictured here with the late, great Brodie, is energy incarnate.  Russell has become considerably more grown up during our lull in blogging. He is now a seven year-old perma-puppy. He has moved from 100% Chance of Stranger Danger Mode to 25% Chance of Stranger Danger Mode, which means he can make friends with—or at least entertain the concept of making friends with—three quar...

When you establish your writing career by channelling a mule, you set yourself up for a dilemma: how to go on when the blogger outlives the mule? If you're reading this blog, there's a solid chance you found me through Fenway Bartholomule. From 2008 to 2015 or so, he was my muse as we successfully co-authored the blog Brays of Our Lives (the archives live on at www.fenwaybartholomule.blogspot.com ). You may also know that he died unexpectedly at the age of 23, one day before my 39th birthday.  I miss Fenway every day—the smell of his breath, the sound of his hoofsteps, the flick of his ears, the warmth of his hide. I also miss the easy flow of banter, the effortless way I guessed at what he might write if his hoofies could use a keyboard. I miss the unique perspective I was able to take when I had his voice in my ear. When I wrote Brays of Our Lives , I wasn't just pretending to be Fenway—I was picking something up and letting it flow through me. I could let it flow now if...

Pictured: Bleu, our recently-adopted Texas Heeler (ACD/Aussie mix)  I've always been a good dreamer, and lately I've been dreaming with an almost exhausting level of detail and complexity. For a couple of weeks now, I've been dreaming about writing books—sometimes my memoir-in-progress, sometimes whole novels, sometimes opening paragraphs, and once an entire sci-fi trilogy (dreamed over the course of three nights). I literally wake up in the morning feeling as though I've written a book, or feeling ready to write a book, sometimes with specific lines or paragraphs running through my head. I think my subconscious is nudging me to get on my writing projects. As a not-morning-person, I'm wondering something: does this mean I should get up earlier and write?  Also, I woke up Friday morning with some weird affirmation running clearly through my mind: "I am committed to excellence." Not a phrase I ever remember reading, thinking, or saying in my waking life. I w...