Reprinted with permission from the Brayer, the magazine of the American Donkey and Mule Society.
I
don't know if I have had a chance yet to tell you this: I am
imperfect. Not by much, I assure you! I am perfectly handsome (albeit
pearshaped) and perfectly mannerly, and I am perfectly strong and
perfectly clever. I am not, however, perfectly unflappable.
I
think I did tell you about the ruffed grouse incident, in which a
terrible chicken-monster nearly gave me an aneurism by rattling
unnervingly in the underbrush as I passed. I think I mentioned how there are terrible, giant tan goats in
the woods (my FarmWife calls them "dear," but I find them
awful). I have been known to spook.
The
funny thing about all of this is that my FarmWife trusts me, and
trusts me well. This is because I am predictable, and my misbehavior
never comes as a surprise or out of the blue.
I
have a bit of a footing problem—that is, when the footing changes,
I watch my footsies. One never knows whether the road that we walked
on yesterday has turned to quicksand overnight, or whether the black
asphalt that was solid last week has turned to a viscous oil pit
today. My footing problem has traveled with me from one home to the
next . . . in fact, when FarmWife spoke with my old owner (from two
homes ago) he told her this: "He was a real good mule, though he
was always funny about stepping on something new." He also told
her to feed me Snickers bars, and that I was the best and the
strongest mule he knew.
FarmWife
knows about my footing problem, but she still loves me. We have
practiced walking over gravel, grass, cement, mud, and tarps. We have
practiced walking over shadows, which the hardest and the most awful
thing to do, but I do it for her. When she asks me to walk over a
shadow onto a new sort of footing, I consider running away and living
with the wild burros. I never do, though. I would miss the ear rubs.
I
love going out on rides, and always meet FarmWife at the gate. She
grooms and tacks me, giving special attention to my daily ear rub. I
drop my head for the bridle, lift my hooves for the boots, and away
we go.
Once
FarmWife's aboard, she tucks her little chihuahua inside her vest and
we proceed down Meredith Lane towards the wilderness. I spook at the
end of the driveway for the transition from gravel to cement, and
then I spook at the end of the lane for the transition from cement to
asphalt. I snort at the Samish River bridge, which is flooded more
than half the time, but I proceed in any case. I go through water
well enough, though I find a stagnant puddle far more threatening
than a rushing stream. If the water's moving, I groove right along.
In
the final stage of our journey to the trailhead, I spook at the
logging road and its transition from asphalt to gravel. FarmWife
urges me on, and we're golden. The rest of the ride is, flawlessly
and always, perfect.
Once
we're on the trail, and whether or not it's a trail I know, I am a
good, good mule. FarmWife lets down her doggy and we adventure: up
hill, over dale, and wherever our hearts take us. We have fun, and
when it's time to go home I skip the spooking.
Gravel/asphalt/cement/gravel/home . . . I take it in stride. I'm
predictable.
Ears
to you,
Fenway
Bartholomule