Welcome To The Bullpen
PG Was a Mule Man
Leslie Johnson
PG was a mule man, and a fairly good one, depending on who you talked to. As such, he really didn’t fool with horses much, unless it was mares to produce more mules with. When Hervie talked to him about working a four year old palomino quarter horse who had had some ground work but no riding,(owned by some silly old woman, wink, nudge, wink..) PG told him he just the thing.
“We’ll put him in harness with ‘ol Bill, that’ll gentle him down right quick. Just give him a time or two around the big field.” He smiled. Sounded good to Hervie, so they made arrangements to bring him over the next day.
The gelding was a tank, a 15.2, probably fifteen hundred pound, mountain of a horse. He had also proved to be very gentle and tractable, which made me think the harnessing of him to a mule might not be a very kind thing to do to him. When they tacked him up and led him to the manure spreader, where Bill was waiting, the mule eyed him with more than a little concern. Bill was about fourteen hands, and although strong and in good shape, he was no match for a horse this size if things got wonky. He’d do his best though, and after a quick nip on the neck to show him who was in charge, and “pay attention, you monster!”, they rattled off more or less in good form as they left the barn yard to go into the big field.
Silver (don’t ask me why, it just stuck), was doing good, pulling with a will and trying hard to adjust to walking along side a partner without drifting over and stepping on feet. PG thought his student was ready for a brisker pace than this sedate amble, so he popped the riens and clucked to Bill.
Bill tried to step off into a trot, but Silver just wasn’t getting it. The mule jerked forward a time or two, and started shaking his head in frustration as Silver stolidly ambled on. PG slapped a little harder, and although Silver’s ears flicked back, he didn’t break a walk. Figuring it was time to wake that big ‘ol boy up, PG gathered a long loop of reins and slammed them on the gleaming hips of the gelding. “Yaw!” he yelled.
Horrified, Silver leaped into a dead run, jerking Bill off his feet and carrying him as he fought madly for purchase. Any use he might have been as a brake was gone. PG was flung over the bench seat backwards, into the bed of the spreader, landing on his back with his feet in the air, but he still had the reins The field was rough enough it was rattling him around in the bed like a pea in a whistle, not to mention the speed they were going. Silver raced across the three acre field, was turned aside by the fence at the end of it, and swung in a mad, sweeping arc back toward the barn yard. Bill’s feet were still tapping the ground about every other leap, and he was trying to batter his head against the big gelding’s cheek to throw him off stride. He might as well have tried to stop an avalanche. Down the back stretch they came, the manure wagon air born about every other stride, PG holding on the reins for dear life. We tried to haze them away from the barn yard, but Silver had had all of this he wanted, so he thundered through us, scattering geese, pigs, chickens and goats like confetti. The small gate at the end of the barn yard was open, and he was going through it.
Bill squalled, savaging Silver with teeth and hooves, desperate to get him turned or stopped. He knew a team of two and a wagon were not going through that pedestrian gate. He literally sat down, using his weight to snap the harness from the shaft between them, and free himself from this juggernaut. By doing this, he was able to throw himself sideways as Silver rocketed through the gate, so he slammed body first instead of head first. The rebounding shock of the impact on the fence threw him out of the path of the manure spreader, which struck a second later and was trimmed of all four wheels in a shattering roar, leaving just a few boards of the bed and PG. The gelding stopped in the yard, sobbing for breath, the ruins of the spreader behind him, but no longer attached, which is why I think he stopped.
I ran to him and began stripping harness off, petting and calming him as best I could, Hervie strolled over to see if PG survived the wreck. He did, he lay on the boards shaking with laughter, battered and bruised, but unbroken. Hervie helped him to his feet, PG looked over at Bill, and started laughing again. The poor mule was sitting down, shaking like a leaf, but with the angriest look I have ever seen on any creature’s face. He was positively outraged.
“I reckon Mother will have to put him up tonight,” PG chuckled, “Believe ‘ol Bill there thinks I done this on a purpose, he won’t be worth a damn to do this again. What say we use Molly next time around?”
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