BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Dear Readers, Some of you may have seen this inspiring video of stoic drafts under the weight of the spry Cristianis, a family of circus performers so strong and agile that they make even me, Fenway Bartholomule, look a bit out of shape. The human larvae's first question, upon seeing these miraculous feats, was, "may we try this on Fenway Bartholomule?" My answer would have been, "of course, my dears. Wear soft shoes." FarmWife's, unfortunately, was, "I don't think we're quite strong enough for these tricks, but we can practice our somersaults in the living room!" FarmWife (if I may tell you one of her little secrets) does not even mount me bareback without a block. Remember, folks, that I am 14 hands and three quarters of an inch. She is 5 feet and a generous 10 inches tall, and there are those among us that think her obstacles are mental and not physical. (She is afraid to embarrass herself, I think, in front of me, Fenway Bartholo...

Mat, the pets, and I (and our fetus, too) made it to Mukilteo, Washington well before the last sailing, and after a brief ferry ride and another 20 minutes' driving, we were home. Home, in the summer of 2004, was a double wide at my mother's little farm, and a tremendous break for a pair of cash-strapped newlyweds. With accommodations for Tanner the Paypal Horse, the reality of whom we had yet to encounter, and an extra bedroom for my four-year-old daughter to come home to, it was perfect.  I'll always think of that time as The Year that We Spent Sitting on the Dryer.  Baby D, beautiful and healthy, was born kicking and screaming into our Whidbey home in October of 2004, and she didn't stop screaming until about a year ago (she still kicks).That, at least, is how I remember things, but exhaustion and postpartum hormones can fog the mind. It may be that it was not that bad. We do, after all, have video recordings of her adorable and happy babbling. It must have happened....

Dear Readers, This weekend has been particularly busy because FarmWife has been occupied orchestrating the denaturalization of Citizen #10. Citizen #10 is the little red dog who, despite her copious mulelike intelligence, fears me in my evening reflective gear. She fears other things, too, and FarmWife feared that she was not experiencing high Quality of Life. Quality of Life is frequently used as a measure of whether old foundered ponies should be euthanized, for instance, or whether Great GrandMaMa should be kept on a feeding tube, so it was with tremendous relief that I learned of FarmWife's proposed solution for THIS problem. Because our little Worry Dog was in the bloom of early adulthood, and because she was normal and wonderful in every way except that she was afraid of things here at Bent Barrow Farm, and because there's a simple and obvious solution to her problems (resocialization and conscientious rewards-based training), FarmWife found a new, DogCentric family...

To celebrate my 400th facebook fan, I, Fenway Bartholomule, have endeavored to provide you with a glimpse of my rambunctious frolicsomeness. Unfortunately, Dear FarmWife has never had the camera handy during my most spectacular performances. She is a good owner, but she is not perfect. The result, dear fans, is that we have ended up resorting to drastic measures: I have performed the Frolic against my will, and I have moved briskly when I would have lingered. You can say that this is a failure in my commitment to you (and FarmWife says that is is not even really a gallop, but more of a reluctant canter). For any disappointment I have caused, I beg forgiveness. Most of you, however, will note that I am a sinewy bit of equine eye candy, and that even my reluctant canter screams of potent athleticism and coiled strength. I think this movie will give you something to smile at. Love, Fenway

Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife Good day FarmWife You want to ride, and when the sun is out You tack up and then we ride about I feel good, in a special way I'm on the trails and it's a sunny day Good day FarmWife Good day FarmWife Good day FarmWife  We take a walk, the sun is shining down I've got boots and they touch the ground Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife  Then I graze beneath a shady tree I love you and you're patting me You feel good, I'm what you're looking for You're so proud to know that I am yours Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife  Good day FarmWife   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Really, folks, I have plenty to say. I'll be blogging on the subjects of precipitous slopes, jeopardized trail systems, exciting purchasin...

FarmWife thought that I needed to be locked in a separate pasture for the birth of the baby goats (just in case, she says, and because you're big, she says) but she was wrong. I didn't mind; after all, birth is messy and I did have my own dinner to attend to. Nonetheless, just to prove that I would have made a very fine midwife, I will tell you what happened. First, I looked for signs of impending labor. These included softening of the ligaments around the tail head, which I couldn't feel due to my having hooves but which I could see due to my having very big, good eyes. Imagine a typical fleshy goat butt tranformed into something more closely resembling a coat hanger. Other signs were yawning (captured here on film) and stretching, or as some horseshow people like to say, "parking." This is something that Tennessee walking horses and valets do, but they do it differently. Missy stretched to facilitate the best positioning of her fetuses, while Tennessee w...

I honestly cannot recall whether Mat and I slept through the night, or if we were awakened prematurely by the cold and damp. I cannot forget, however, the viscous gray seepage in which we found ourselves by morning. I will never forget the color, the texture, or the copious abundance of the mud in that giant washbasin in which we had camped. I will never forget because, to this day the mud is with us—a gray film on my tent, washed several times and used several more in the intervening years; a collection of sloppy wet-paw slashes across Mat's guitar case, smeared during the passage of our soggy dogs in to the car the next morning. It was the fourth day of our trip, and we had passed what would be, on this trip, the last night of camping. The frugal and outdoorsy vibe had left us, and as Mat and I scraped the mud from our boots, our gear, and our pups we made plans for change. Before the breakfast hour passed, we were plotting to overnight in a motel. The mud basin had rendered our ...