In my world, there is nothing I cannot do; there is no bridge I cannot cross, no mountain I cannot scale, no river or ocean I cannot swim and there is certainly, under no circumstance, a horse or horse-like animal that does not, will not love me! Mules are no exception. They WILL love me. I will look into their big, soft brown eyes and they will adore me. They will automatically trust me and think to themselves, "Now here is a lady that knows what's up!"
The setting: Missouri, just north of the Arkansas border. Down miles and hours of winding country highway which are really nothing more than a narrow strip of blacktop with faded yellow dividers and rampaging country-boy drivers with little to no concern for their vehicles well being as the careen about sharp, blind corners with the speed of a sin with the devil on its tail. The more detailed setting: One sharp turn off the country highway and down a potholed half gravel half blacktop road at the end of which Cedar trees tower haphazardly around a rustic looking log cabin. The yard is bare except the occasional splotch of abused and neglected grass. Other than that, the ground is dirt and gravel. Near the far back corner of what passes for a 'yard' is a roughly thrown together corral no more than 20'x20' at the most.
The characters: One young man that I guessed to be in his mid to late twenties, one older man with a half-bald head, pot belly protruding from beneath a pair of threadbare overalls, and five or six teeth mysteriously gone missing. My dad, my mom, my six siblings and...me. Wonderful, brilliant, fearless, all knowledgeable thirteen or fourteen year old me.
The reason:
Wanted!
Docile, gentle trail horse or mule on
which children may learn to ride.
Must be kind, sure-footed, and saddle and bridle broke.
Owning a horse of my very own had been a life-long dream. Could I ride one? Pft! Of course! After all, when I was nine my dad took me to a place that offered pony rides; and while those ponies may only have ever plodded in a dejected manner continuously about a steel bar, tethered to a moving circle, I had not fallen off and had even been told I had a 'natural seat.' Of course I could ride. And then let's not forget the hours I spent galloping about on my imaginary horsey-friend Diamond-Star-Bangles-Jubilee. I knew exactly how to ride a horse.
Pulling into that shambling, somewhat questionable, lot where we were to inquire about a mule for sale, I admit I had my doubts. I wanted a horse and a mule is certainly no majestic steed! But, it had four legs, a man - of sorts - and a long tail. It smelled like a horse, sounded mostly like a horse, and, I was sure, would love me like a horse is supposed to. It had been a long drive in which I had spent most of it envisioning the way my hair would trail behind me in the breeze as the steed, er, mule carried me in long strides across the open country-side of our Arkansas farm and in which I caught the eye of a rodeo cowboy. Never mind that there were no rodeo cowboys in the vicinity we lived, my beautiful mount would draw them in.
We children tumbled out of the old van, tensions high with excitement at the prospect of finally purchasing our first animal to ride. The old man aforementioned rocked back o his heels from his position on the cluttered front porch, spit a stream of tobacco, lifted a hand, and hollered, "Y'all here about tha' mule?" When my dad confirmed, the old man ambled down, yelling for "Jimmy! We got us some inner-ested buyers. Leave off that what-fer and bring tha' mule on out!"
"Jimmy", the younger man, left something he had been tinkering with and headed towards the corral we had passed coming down the driveway. My heart was aflutter with excitement! How could it not be? A horse, or mule! Finally. This was it. There was no way we would leave this place without my dad having made a purchase. Granted, it was a mule, but so far, fingers crossed, that hadn't seemed to phase my dad. Mules are sure-footed, easily trained, and generally docile animals. My dad had spent the first thirteen years of his life on a farm and he was comfortable and in-charge around any number and type of animal. It was all I could do, as my dad chatted with the old man, to stand still and not bounce from foot to foot. I listened in on the conversation between adults with one ear, and eyed the corral greedily with one eye.
"So," the old man was saying. "This hure mule is 'bout five years old and he's a small fellow. He ain't got too much height on 'im like most mules but he's got a good pace an' he be a good first ride fer yer young 'uns."
"What's his temperament like?" wanted to know my dad.
"We-e-e-l-l-l-llll," drawled the old man, giving my dad the shifty-eye and spewing another stream of tobacco out on to the ground. "I reckon he can be a bit feisty but that's jest the spirit in 'im. You don't want no mule that don't do nothin' but stand thar when ya' try an' ride 'im. Here he come now."
We all turned to watch Jimmy approach, leading what could possibly be our newest member of the Praught animals. Jimmy was coming, alright, but the mule was an entirely different matter. He was medium height for a mule, nothing too intimidating, and he was an ugle mixture of color - something between a sickly grey and a road kill hash brown. He had already been saddled and bridled before we arrived, apparently, and there turned out to be a very good reason for this as it had probably taken the two men several hours of cussing, fighting, and sweating to get the said objects onto the mule. The mule? Oh, my, the mule! Jimmy was coming towards us, grunting and straining on the reins, and the mule was doing his best to lock his front legs and go backwards. There was a wild, flashing in the mule's eyes as they rolled in his head, the whites showing, and his teeth were bared beneath pulled back lips.
"Jest show 'im who's boss, Jimmy!" This from the old man before turning to my dad and hurriedly explaining, "He jest wants to get on back with his buddies, is all an' he's a bit nervous with strangers but I promise ya', he's a right good animal to learn to ride on."
At this point, the mule leaned forward, bowed his neck, and lashed out viciously with one back leg then immediately attempted to chew out a chunk of Jimmy steak. Luckily, Jimmy was quick and promptly walloped the insane animal across the chin. It was also at this point that my dad directed us children to back away from the animal we had all been clamoring to get a look and touch of. Ever the obedient children and, plainly, the sensible ones who sensed danger, my siblings darted back and away from the lashing legs and nipping teeth. The old man was doing his best to assure my dad that this wasn't normal behavior and, hey, as a sign of good faith, he would even let a couple of us kids take turns being led around on the mule's back.
Thank you kindly but, "I don't think that mule has a nice bone in his body and that is not feisty that's downright psychotic!" exclaimed my dad. The old man could see my dad would need some convincing so Jimmy was ordered to tie the mule up to a tree a short distance away so he could 'calm down' and we children were told to go play but to stay clear of the mule.
As the adults began to delve into conversation, I could see my dreams of owning a magnificent steed slipping from my grasp. This would never do! I must have a horse, or mule, and THIS one was the one I was going to own. Why, look at that mule, standing serenely under the tree, tail swishing gently at flies, head hanging contentedly. There wasn't a mean bone in the mule's body. Why, I bet the owners were villains who abused the poor thing. Oh, they may look harmless but I was not fooled. I had read Black Beauty and I had read The Black Stallion. All this mule needed was confidence, love, and a gentle hand. Who better to provide those things than Horse-Whisperer Me?
I continued to innocently run about with my brothers and sisters, but I kept one eye on the mule and one eye on my parents. Slowly, gradually, sneakily I moved one step closer, and then another and then another towards the mule, careful not to draw attention from the adults or my siblings. It took several minutes of stealth but soon enough I was within arms reach of the poor, misunderstood animal. That poor, misunderstood animal also happened to have lifted his head warily and begun eyeing me threateningly. But did I notice? Of course I didn't. I had star in my eyes. Love in my eyes. Confidence in my step. A whisper and a coax in my voice. This mule would hear my voice and all would be right in the world!
"You're such a beautiful boy, aren't you?" I kept my voice low as I slowly reached out a finger. I tried to remember everything Alex from the Black Stallion had done to tame the wild animal. Voice low, movements slow, eye contact maintained. Check, check, and check. Whoa! I snatched my fingertips back just in time to save them from immediate amputation by teeth. Well, that was odd. No matter. I would not be deterred. Once more, I reached forward a hand. Once more the teeth snapped at me accompanied, this time, by an aggravated kick of the hind leg that was, luckily not pointed in my direction. Back and forth we went for what felt like hours but, in reality, was only a few minutes.
Well, this is stupid, I thought to myself, greatly aggrieved and feeling much betrayed by certain authors. I love this mule, can't he see that? He should be nuzzling my hand at this point! Maybe he just thinks I want to sit on him and then beat him - as the owners surely do. That's it! I'll just get on him and then he'll see I mean him no harm. I only want to sit on him and let him feel my love through my body language.
It's a wonder, I often think now, many years later, that I have survived thus far in life with all my bones and teeth and mental capacities in tact. Surely, had not the good Lord watched over me time and time again, I should have been badly injured or even dead.
My thoughts did not work like that at thirteen and fourteen. No. Instead they worked with a single-minded imperviousness to anything being impossible to me. So, to the side of the mule I went, managing to keep all my fingers and flesh as I jabbed in a grabbed firmly ahold of the side of the bridle. By doing this, I was able to control the mule's head and keep the sociopathic intent of the animal away from me. Poor, poor, misunderstood animal. Right? Now I found myself in a predicament, though. I needed to get my foot into the stirrup and grab both the front and back of the saddle to pull myself up but I only had one hand and the mule was now rocking his body like the USS Crazy Town in order to keep me off his back. He was just nervous. That's all. I just needed to take charge and show him.
One foot was hiked up into the air as I careened my leg back and forth, trying to slip my toe into the wildly swinging stirrup. My balance was a war that I was losing and suddenly my palms started sweating! Oh no! I was losing my grip on the mule's bridle and therefore my control of the teeth. The mule's head was turning, the legs were stomping and this mule had murder in his eyes. He was taking a person out today and that person was going to be me. Maybe I bit off more than I could chew? No! Never!
"You stupid animal!" I muttered, hopping about on one leg and chasing the stirrup with the other. "What the heck's the matter with you? Let me get on or we can't buy you and I want to buy you! Maybe I'll just quit and then you'll be left ere and the owners will keep beating you and then you'll remember the girl who you could've let love you and, oh boy, you'll be sorry, then! Stand still you moron!"
My toe found the edge of the stirrup. Yes! I was going to win!
"Brook Marie!" My dad's voice bellowed across the yard, startling me, causing that familiar you're-in-trouble-now flutter to jump in my stomach and disconcert me. "Get away from that crazy, stinking animal right now before you get yourself killed.
I stumbled backwards, releasing the mule, and propelling myself out of reach of the murderous animal just in the nick of time. Jimmy had come barreling over at the shouts from the old man who was probably seeing a lawsuit in his very near future, my siblings had come to a standstill and were gaping at me, and my mom looked ready to beat me or have a heart-attack, I wasn't sure which. One of the reins used to tie the mule up and had come loose and Jimmy managed to snatch up the reins just as the mule pulled free and made to come after me.
"What in the world is wrong with you?" barked my dad.
Face beet red with fear and embarrassment, I hung my head. What could I say that would make anything I had just done look smart? "I'm sorry but I just wanted to prove I could tame a psychotic animal in a few minutes flat? It worked for the Black Stallion? I need a majestic steed to gallop off into the sunset with?" Nothing seemed feasible considering my near death by mule experience and so I said nothing.
Even now, looking back on it, I can't think of a single excuse that explains why someone would invite a mule to kill them. Every now and again, though, I wonder what ever happened to the animal and if he ever changed. I don't know. But I do know that if ever an animal needed a psychiatrist, it was that crazy, stinking animal.
There still isn't much that I think I cannot do. I still pretty much consider myself infrangible and all-powerful. I did, however, learn early on that crazy animals are crazy animals and they need someone even crazier than me. Mules just aren't my forte, apparently.
