A Mule Named Pearl

My sister, Vicki, had a horse, a fine example of horseflesh and equine excellence. I, on the other hand, had Pearl. Pearl was a mule, the offspring of the unlikely mating of a donkey and a horse. Now, Pearl wasn’t much on looks, in fact she was kind of homely and plain. The hair on her body was stubby and coarse instead of sleek and silky, prickly to bare legged riders on hot summer days. While horses have flowing manes, long and shiny strands of hair that blew prettily in the breeze, Pearl looked like she had survived a disastrous experience at the world’s worst hairdressing salon. Her mane was rough and stubbly, sheared off at the skin of her neckline, the usual fashion for mules of both sexes. She had gray hair around her nose and mouth, when every one knows ladies should keep young looking with whatever color of hair dye is currently in vogue. Her tail, though long, was not the stuff any self-respecting horse would be jealous of either. It was stiff and bristly, very difficult to braid and impossible to manage with a comb or brush.

Pearl had protruding ears, large pointy appendages that stood straight up from the top of her head and had a backwards tilt. Kind of like they stood at attention at all times, alert and ready. They did come in handy, though, for holding a bridle in place and using as a guide when we ambled down the side of the highway or along winding gravel roads. I, at one point, thought she was broad as a river, but looking back, it was more likely my legs were so stubby they stuck out, not because of her girth, but due to the length of my much cursed lower extremities. She was kinda tall, although to be honest here, I am not sure how tall a normal mule is supposed to be. But to a five foot shrimp like me, she was massive. The shear logistics of getting my fanny from the ground to her back were mind-boggling.

The first problem was to capture her, usually after a chase of several minutes duration around the briar patch in the barn lot. Not for me was the usual tame horse--- you know the kind I mean, one who ambled up to the fence as soon as you even looked towards the barn looking for a pat on the neck or a snack. This mule was no Lady, snubbing love and affection or a bribe. She was ornery as all heck, and stubborn in her desire for freedom from the rigors of carrying a would-be cowgirl for miles on her back. Once I had her in my clutches, bridling her became an act of will, mine against hers. Being ....ummm…less than tall, shall we say, was a definite handicap when attempting to reach the height needed to slip it over her head and into place behind her ears. And the simple act of putting a saddle on her was an adventure in logistical maneuvers. A saddle , at the best of times, is a heavy piece of equine equipment, awkward and cumbersome to fling onto the backside of an animal. It is even more difficult to achieve on an animal who’s back is almost taller than your head. There is also the fact that she would blow her belly out so the saddle girt can’t be tightened, which meant the saddle would come loose at some later point. And this could cause the rider to hit the ground in an ungainly and not very dignified heap. The cure was simple enough, explained by my older sister. A simple knee placed forcefully in the side of the animal would cause them to let the breath so the saddle could be fastened properly. The problem came from my lack of height, not the force of my kneeing ability. So Vicki, being the taller, would usually do this little maneuver for me. Ah, I would have treasured long legs!

Thunder, Vicki’s trusty horse, had a variety of gaits, or paces consisting of a various types and rates of locomotion. A slow, ambling walk, a gentle lope, or a rollicking gallop were no problem for the Wonder Horse to accomplish. Pearl, on the other hand, had two speeds, stop and trot. And neither were effortless or trouble-free to accomplish. To begin with, after either a boost up, (usually accomplished by Vicki’s cupped hands under my foot, or standing on whatever likely object was handy to step up on for the added inches needed for me to reach the stirrup), the gear Pearl was in was “STOP”. Getting her to move wasn’t an easy accomplishment to achieve for this cowgirl of little experience. But usually after several vigorous kicks aimed at her sides, along with the “Giddy-ups” and “He-Yahhs” got her to move out of her tracks. If those failed to get any response other than a twitch of those radar ears, clicking the tongue and swatting of the palm of the hand on the rear most portion of her anatomy sometimes became necessary. As a last resort, the flick of Vicki’s bridle reins across the top of her backside would launch her into motion, unfortunately, with a severe jolt and jerk which nearly unseated me!

Once moving, she had one speed……”TROT“. Trotting was and has never been a comfortable gait for the rider. It consists mainly of a shuffling pace by the mule/horse and the bouncing of the rider’s fanny against the seat portion of the saddle. Tough on a sensitive portion of a teenaged gal’s body, even with the padding of the saddle and, er, a teenage girls backside. And I have to say, at this point, that a fanny slapping the saddle for several hours leads to aches and pains in portions of your anatomy you didn’t even know existed. Saddles should have been constructed like a recliner, fluffy cushions of foam and fabric!

The next problem arose when the need to stop moving came into play. Pearl was equally as reluctant to halt forward progress as she was to start it. No gentle backward tug of the reins had any effect on this stubborn mule. Even mighty yanks failed to get any response. I can remember resorting to hauling back on the reins till her head was pulled up high and I was practically laying across her back ( my head pointing at her tail) before I had any effective means of stopping moving. It soon became simpler to let Vicki lead the way, no matter where we were riding to. Much easier to let Pearl run into the lead horse, and thereby stop, than to try to stop her on my own. Thank goodness that mule wouldn’t run, or I’d have ridden off the edge of the earth by now!

You know, I was jealous that Vicki had her horse, typical of kids everywhere when one has something the other covets. And to tell the truth, Daddy didn’t buy her for me to ride, but to plow the garden patch. Her being my everyday ride was just a bonus. She was gentle, and calm. Never bucked or kicked or bit, no matter the provocation. She allowed me to roam the countryside with my sister and her friends, gave me a freedom I hadn’t had before. The fact that she survived me learning to ride meant she could survive anything.