A Death in the Family

Several years ago, while I was recuperating from a knee replacement, I decided to learn to horseback ride-or to be more precise, mule back ride.

We had moved to Pompey four years earlier and Terri had returned to trail riding and it was apparent that it was a big part of her life. I wanted to share it with her.

She had purchased her mule, Franklin, at an auction and he was a “thoroughbred cross.”

For those who are unfamiliar with mules, they are a cross mating between a horse and a donkey. As a result they have an extra chromosome that renders them sterile and incapable of reproducing.

When Terri had her first veterinarian visit, the vet said to her; “I’m going to tell you three things about this mule. First; they are ten times smarter than a horse. Second; they are three times stronger than a horse. Third; they have impeccable memories, so don’t ever be mean to it because they will wait months and when you least expect it they will kick you in the head. Lastly, if you haven’t bonded with it in a few months get rid of it because you never will.”

Clearly he didn’t know Terri because God hasn’t created an animal that she isn’t bonded with.

After I completed physical therapy I began taking riding lessons. The instructor had a “lesson horse” who taught me that he was in charge and wouldn’t do anything I wanted him to do.

During this uplifting experience, Terri bought a second mule.

It was a female quarter horse cross that she named “Tulip.” She told me it was my Father’s Day gift. After I watched it take off with her at a dead gallop and she had to turn it towards a tree to get her to stop, I told her; “I don’t thinks so. Thanks but no thanks.”

I continued to take lessons and also began to scan ads on Craigslist and the weekly shopping newspaper for livestock sales. I liked the idea of buying a mule because they have an undeserved reputation for being stubborn. Rather than stubborn, they are exceedingly cautious and will not go anywhere or do anything that they perceive to be dangerous to themselves. I reasoned that if I was going to be on the back of a large equine, while in my 60’s, I didn’t want it doing anything that it thought was dangerous either.

After a few months I came across an ad for a mule for sale in Pennsylvania. We drove several hours to see him.

The woman who had him said his name was “Harry.” He was a draft horse cross approximately seventeen hands tall. She said he came from one of the Catskill resorts that offered riding to their guests.

He was the saddest animal I had ever seen.

He was standing in a single stall in manure over his hooves. You could count his ribs. His still had his winter coat despite it being May.

Mules are notorious herd animals but he had been separated him from his companion, adding to his misery.

My reaction to his plight must have been apparent because the owner volunteered that she had “rescued him.”

“How much do you want for him? I asked. “$ 750.00,” she said quickly. “Here is a check,” I said, “I want a vet check and then will be back with a trailer in a few days.”

On the way home Terri and a friend who had come with us asked, “Do you think he’s right for you?” “I don’t know,” I replied,” but I just can’t leave that animal there. I think we are the ones doing the rescuing here”

A few days later the woman faxed me the vet check, done by her vet, and it showed he was 15 years- old, was under-weight but had no diseases.

We returned to Pennsylvania with a friend who generously agreed to trailer him back for us and loaded him up for the trip home. The trip was very distressing for him because he had to stand in a trailer in his emaciated condition for several hours. When we arrived home he was genuinely in a lather.

We boarded him at the barn where I was taking lessons, while Terri was having her three stall barn built. I visited him each day to walk him and bond while he gained weight. Always doubtful whether his name was really “Harry,” I changed his name to “Donovan” after my favorite Fenian figure Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa.

We had our own vet and an equine dentist examine him. One estimated he was twenty-five years old and the other closer to thirty. I enjoyed telling people that I had a mule that was my age.

Over the course of several months he gained between 200 and 300 pounds.

In time, I went for a ride on him with my riding instructor. He was absolutely docile and willing to do anything you wanted him to. In short, he was “push button.”

I now relished telling people that “Terri lives with four jackasses and three of them are trainable.”

When the barn was completed, all three of the mules moved home with us. Both the herd loyalty and the pecking order was established quickly. Franklin was the boss, Tulip was their siren song and Donovan was just happy to be part of it.

We rode on the trails surrounding our property and sometimes trailered to areas where riding was permitted.

Donovan and I were in complete sync with each other. He didn’t want to trot or gallop and I didn’t either. He was happy to follow Franklin, Tulip or whatever horse or mule that was in front of him and enjoy the scenery. I was too.

He did have one habit I would never be able to break him of and I really didn’t want to.
He would walk with me on his back for ten feet and then stop and eat grass. Walk ten more feet and stop for grass again. This was our endless procession on our rides. I once told Terri that if Donovan and I had to ride to California, we would both be dead from old age by the time we got to Ohio.

I wasn’t the only one he let up on his back. People of all ages rode him from my granddaughter, Claire, at age two with her parents walking along next to her to a friend who was my age and hadn’t ridden in decades. For many of our friends, he was their first riding experience and he hooked them all into deciding to take lessons.

We learned that if you left a stall door even slightly ajar, he would get it completely open and lead the Franklin and Tulip on a merry chase down the road to visit the horses penned there.

I vividly recall one beautiful spring morning when I was working in my home office with the windows open and suddenly heard the clopping of twelve hooves headed down the road. After an hour’s chase with a bucket of grain, Donovan surrendered and let us throw a lead rope lightly around his neck and return him to the barn with the other two plodding along behind him.

From that day forward, Terri hung a sign on the inside of the barn door that said “Bed check for Naughty Donovan.”

In time, he became less sure footed, would begin to stumble and didn’t have the endurance or the strength to go on rides. It took him longer to get up from rolling and the pain in his knees was evident. His teeth no longer permitted him to chew grass or eat hay. His vision and hearing began to fail.

He went peacefully the other day.

He is buried in the lower pasture, just above the pond where we all gather on nice days.

He may have been the nicest sweetest animal I ever encountered.

He brought a lot of joy, good times and fun to the lives of many people.

He will truly be missed.