Trail ridin' mule

I'm a trail ridin' mule. It appears at the top of my resume as a bullet point, right underneath "hay eater," "best friend," and "splendiferous brayer." It is one of the several hundred best things about me.

Unfortunately for FarmWife, who is the sole beneficiary of my wonderful trail skills, I have not been riding lately. Somehow there's always something else for my human to do: a big project, a social gathering, a heavy workload. FarmWife works outside the home on Sundays, as you know, and every Saturday since Thanksgiving has been full up with Important Matters.

FarmWife doesn't mind winter in these parts. She cares little for ice and snow, but a steady drizzle is OK in her book. She would ride in a torrential downpour, a whipping wind, or a stormy shower. She has ridden me through lightening, hail, and northerly gales. The weather is not the issue.

The amount of daylight? THAT'S the issue. Our regularly scheduled Tuesday night rides are out, and Sundays after work are not an option. On weeknights, FarmHusband gets home from work a full 30 minutes after the departure of the last speck of dwindling light, and FarmWife simply doesn't feel safe about riding me down the road in the deep, gloomy darkness. Attempts to book a babysitter have failed, and FarmWife has some strange repulsion to the idea of leaving the children safely enclosed by the electric fence.

Never fear! Spring is nearly sprung, my friends. Every day gets lighter, now, and in these parts we've just six or eight weeks to wait for the first crocuses and hyacinths. I'm not going to fret, and if FarmWife only rides me once a month in winter then at least she has the good sense to ride me lightly. She will not push me to great exertion until the light of summer returns, and then we will work back into a four-day per week schedule. We've our whole lives ahead of us, and many promised rides.

Ears to you,
FenBar