Once all of the mules arrived home, they settled into a somewhat mundane existence punctuated by their periodic parties and escapes.
Franklin became the boss of the pasture, a role which Donovan was willing to abdicate and Tulip never expressed any interest in.
Donovan was content to hang out, eat grain and hay and was agreeable to the riders who wanted to saddle him up.
According to the woman I purchased him from, he had been part of a “hack line” at one of the resorts in the Catskills who ferried guests interested in a trail ride through the adjacent mountains.
He gave every indication that this had been his lot in life. Once saddled up, he was perfectly willing to munch grass in the yard while he waited for the other equines to join the trail ride.
In fact, munching grass became his focus in life.
If we went out on a trail ride, there would be an endless repetition to it.
He would walk six feet, stop and eat grass.
Walk another six feet and stop and eat grass.
There was no solution to this pattern.
You could kick his haunches, tap him with a crop, whatever, he would move another six feet and stop for grass.
I came to the conclusion that if Donovan and I had to ride to California, like they did two hundred years ago, we would both be dead from old age by the time we reached Ohio.
At the same time, I came to enjoy the ride, if you could call it that.
He would dutifully follow the other mules or horses and never let them out of his sight even if we stopped for grass.
Despite being the world’s most nervous trail rider, I became confident enough on his back to bring along a camera and take pictures of country and scenery you might never see.
Sometimes, we would be on a trail ride and others wanted to gallop.
Donovan and I didn’t.
“Make him run,” I’d be told. “He doesn’t want to run,” I’d respond, “I don’t want him to run either.”
In time, he became our go-to mule.
Friends would come out with their children and when they saw the mules, the first thing they would do is look at Tulip and ask Terri and I, “Do you think my kid could ride that smaller one ?”
“I wouldn’t ride that smaller one,” I would reply, “but I would put them up on Big D,” I’d say pointing at Donovan.
They would look at me skeptically and say “Are you sure ?”
Once I informed them that my two-year-old granddaughter had been up on him in the round pen, while we walked along with her, for a few turns, they were sold.
I can’t begin to count the number of little ones who had their first mule ride on Big D.
Little ones weren’t the only people who got bit by the trail riding bug because they got up on Donovan.
We had many friends who had not ridden in years or ever before, who took a ride on him and then started to take lessons to learn more about how to continue.
He never gave anyone anything but a memorable and enjoyable experience.
My riding teacher, Nancy Cerio, described him as “push button.”
She was right.
As Donovan began to age more, his balance became unsteady and he would start to stumble more frequently.
I also began to suspect that his eye sight was dimming.
It became increasingly clear that a trail ride would leave him very tired and sore.
It dawned on me that if he were to fall with me on his back that we were both going to get really hurt.
It was time for both of us to retire from trail riding.
He became a pasture companion and stuck close to hid herd. If you took either Franklin or Tulip out for a trail ride he would bray loudly over and over again until they returned.
More than once I wondered if the neighbors and passersby thought that he was being tortured because there was no doubting his anguish from being separated from his fellow barn mates.
Now, the rides for children who were visiting, fell to Franklin and Tulip who performed this task agreeably.
Some adults took Franklin out for a trail ride if Terri went along on Tulip but there was still no telling what Tulip would do with a stranger up on her back.
In August 2016 old age caught up to Donovan and he went on to his great reward.
It was one of the saddest days of my life because he was truly one of the sweetest animals that God ever created.
He’s buried in the pasture and Terri planted wild flowers on his grave.
Now each spring when the flowers bloom we are reminded of how lucky we were to have had him in our lives and we retell the stories about the jailbreaks and his Animal House Party.
He still provides both joy and laughter.
More Next week.