Mowers and raccoons and steers, oh my!

In my informal Facebook survey I learned that the majority of Friends of the Muleness want more stories—All the Stories!—and that the story they want most of all is the story of the raccoon. 

Farmwife says it's hardly a story at all, and that it would be something to talk about had the raccoon been in my barn, or touching my body, or gesticulating at me with it's bizarrely human little fingers to indicate that it would like a little snack or help with its homework. Alas, this is not that kind of story. 

Before I tell you about the raccoon I have to go backwards and tell you that I am feeling very good in my body these days. My track through the forest has been expanded, my laminitis is at bay, and my health has been very largely excellent since I came here to the Atomic Ranch in December. I am feeling so good, in fact, that I have been cleared for long walks around the neighborhood! Puck, Farmwife, and I sometimes make the long loop up Saratoga and back around Fox Spit, which despite its name seems to boast neither foxes nor saliva. The first time we took this walk Farmwife was thinking about it in terms of whether Puck could behave himself in the roadway. 

I am trusted on roads because I was raised by the Amish, and there are many videos of me parambulating up and down lanes carrying riders, hitched to buggies, and doing all manner of other useful and unflappable things. Puck was not immediately trusted because he is on the spookier side at home, and because we know little of his past. Having no trails and no arena, Farmwife approached this question from the perspective of, "If I get on this little horse and embark into the neighborhood, will he throw me off at the first sign of traffic?" 

Here is the very good news—Puck passed, and was passed by, pedestrians, a bicyclist, motorcyclists, a county brush mower, a tractor, a survey crew, cars, trucks, and dog walkers without incident! The mower made him stop and say, "hmmmmm?" but he exhibited much muleness in his dignified examination. It wasn't more than a few seconds before he was ready to continue, with the mower blade temporarily disengaged by the kind operator. 

There were two frightening things on this walk—first, a thing that made us say, "eek!" and "wow!" that was a baby raccoon, jumping out of a ditch right under our feet and scurrying through the brush next to the road. Puck went, "tap tap tap" with his feet and "snort snort snort" with his nostrils and then stared, with much elegance—neck arched, ears pricked, mane flowing in the breeze. Even in alarm he is good looking. I, having perhaps seen more trash pandas than he in my past life as a working mule, hardly looked at all though I did thorougly examine the little fella once he was safely up a tree on the verge. I would say it was a safe and successful wildlife encounter—no one wheeled and bolted, no one stepped on the little guy, and no one got rabies during the interaction. 

The second frightening thing made Puck say, "WTF," though still he spooked with dignity and poise. This was a genuine stampede of highland cattle. There were three of them, plus a bonus goat, and when they saw us they jumped about out of their hairy hides, then took off bucking and cavorting all about their pasture. Nothing makes a prey animal worry like other prey animals running away, so Farmwife gave us commendations for slamming on the brakes and staring. Not a bad response. 

Here's what our first long walk taught us: Puck can be trusted to behave sensibly on the road. I am healthy enough for long walks in hand. Raccoons and steers are as curious about us as we are about them. And the neighbors, among those we've met, really find me handsome. 

Soon I shall tell you about the painting of the barn and the planting of the meadow—and perhaps, when I find the time, I will tell you the very exciting story of the puppies in the road! 

Ears to you, 

Songbird Sparrowgrass