Fenway Bartholomule, stadium jumper

Photo © 2009 Jennifer Wood/PMG.

I, Fenway Bartholomule of Wickersham, Washington, am officially a jumping mule. I'm not talking clearing a brush heap or hopping a log out on the trail—no, I have jumped a real course. In an arena. 


Except . . . um, it wasn't really an arena. It was my pasture.


And . . . um, it wasn't really a real course. More of a collection of salvaged items. 


And . . . well, the tallest obstacle was a picnic bench (fourteen inches high and ten inches deep . . . I think that qualifies as an oxer?) and the most complex gymnastic element was a series of two crossrails set up with 2x4's on saw horses. 


Still, I managed! I jumped beautifully. Not only that, but I did so while handicapped by the uneven footing, the unmown grass, and FarmWife in her dressage saddle aboard. 


I managed, and I impressed FarmWife with my pep and my vigor. I had one run-out (is it my fault our picnic bench is a mere four feet from end to end?) and one refusal (bi-fold closet doors are meant to stand in front of closets, people—not out in the field, lying A-frame style on the lawn like the bunker of some sinister miniature army) but I did a lovely job for the most part. It was fun. 


Now, FarmWife—get thee an all purpose saddle and some real standards, jump cups, and poles. We'll do it again some day.


Ears,
FenBar