Mules and Me

There’s been a lot of talk in the past few days about age-related rust that accumulates over the years in our joints and brains.

When I was little, Mama told me that a joint was a bad place where both hanky and panky hide out so they could smoke cigarettes and drink beer. Back then, those bad joints had nothing to do with my wrists and ankles. Now they do.

I’m 73 years old.

You don’t have to remind me. I am painfully aware that my “days of glory,” when I smelled like Hai Karate, are now replaced by my “days to Glory” and I smell like horse liniment — that is if can get to Glory while being a farrier.

It can be near impossible to find a saint hanging onto a muddy mule foot, especially a farrier who has come close to finding out what one tastes like.

I’m hoping I can at least get close to those sparkling gates — you know, the ones preachers say look like the coat Porter Wagnor used to wear at the Opry. And if I do, maybe there will be a mule on the other side, pinning his ears, his lips peeled back and showing his brown teeth, looking like a 1000-pound rabid rabbit riding a limping Harley with a flat tire. It will be a mule that nobody would dare even try to pick up his foot, much less give him a manicure.

His eyes will be as dark as Satin’s heart, his intentions as clear and cloudless as a January sky.

“You were a farrier on earth,” Saint Peter might ask me. “Wanna give it a go?”

I’m thinking, “That kicky mule might be my ticket to get through the door.”

But it could also create a conundrum in Heaven. For instance, if you are already in Heaven and a mule kicks and kills you, where do you go then? Maybe to a separate Heaven for slow learners who didn’t retain the education they received after that last kick sent them to the funeral home.

“I’ll give it a whirl,” I’d say as I push my way to the front of the line, waving my hand in the air.

“Well, come on in, brother,” I hope St. Peter will say, and I’ll get a second chance to make amends and get those checkmarks by “Gluttony” and “Lounge Mouth” from my biography.

I’ll just have to make sure I watch my mouth when — not if — the mule tries to kick me back over the fence.

“How did a mule like that get to heaven?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s not staying,” Saint Peter said. “We need to get his feet done because tomorrow we shipping him out to the Lake of Fire Plantation so he can pull Beelzebub’s buggy. I hope somebody’s got a camera.” He’s trying to hide his laughter, but his bouncing belly gives it away.

Of course, that’s all conjecture on my part.

If you’ve ever been around mules, you might shake your head and say, “There won’t be any mules in Heaven.”

I think you might be wrong.

I’m sure God will make an exception since the mule was not a Genesis invention of His. He created the horse and the donkey, both with distinct dispositions. It was mankind who mixed them together to produce a creature smarter than a horse and more stubborn than a lighter stump.

Historians say mules were in Egypt as early as 3000 BC. So even that long ago, people were thinking, “I wonder what would happen if…”

Mules will outwork a horse. I guess they have nothing else to do but work — no ancestors to talk about, no children to brag on.

I don’t know all that much about Muleolgy. All I know is I have several good ones on my books: Michelle, Billy, Calamity, Hazel, and Juno. I used to have two more, Henry and Euzema. But old age caught up with them. Both were near 40 years old.

Juno is a mini, about waist-high. To the unknowing, she might look like a half-pint, but she is a full gallon-and-a-half of mule.

I trim several donkeys, too. Not as many as I used to. Back then there were some days when I felt like I’d seen more donkeys (aka… well, you know) than a commode seat at an all-you-can-eat taco joint

Not all of the mules, donkeys and horses I trim are what I would call gentle. But all are very patient as I moan through the process of trimming their hooves at half the speed and twice the grunts than I used to.
I’m too hard-headed and hard up for cash to retire. Sometimes I think that in a past life I might have been a mule. After all, I’m a little smarter than a horse and as stubborn as that lightard stump.