Clay, that reminds me of the story of the Widow McCreary's mule, Joshua. It seems that after Sam passed and the responsibility and work at the farm fell on her tired shoulders, Joshua came down with a case of the dreaded Plugged Ass! Well that was a bad day indeed!

The good widow went straight to Doc Taylor and sought a cure. "Why Sarah," sez the Doc, "go straight home and administer some castor oil to old Joshua, the problem will pass, I assure you."

It seemed simple enough, and after a brief foray to the general store to purchase said oil, she was off to home. Now she had never done such a thing as give a mule a castor oil enema, but Doc Taylor had explained how, and she was a spirited ol' gal...

One of the last acts concluded by Sam before his untimely demise was to clean the paint brush he'd been using to paint the barn doors, and after doing so had put the bottle of turpentine on the top of the stall rail to dry his hands. That is when his heart exploded, and thus the bottle of turpentine, purchased at the same general store, packaged in the same style and color bottle, remained there patiently awaiting its fate. On the rail. Of the stall. The very same stall where Joshua stood in abject misery.

The good Widow returned and went directly to the barn to do the deed. She offered brief comforting words to Joshua, alluding to eminent relief, albeit prior to life in the hereafter, for there remained another 60 acres to plow. Casting about by the stall it seemed that the funnel had gone missing, and as she pondered this she sat the castor oil bottle on the stall rail...the very same rail whereupon rested the bottle of turpentine. Now if you think you know where this is going I would caution that you are not right by half, so don't let your imagination get ahead of my typing.

After a brief and futile search for the funnel the good Widow Sarah remembered that her dear Sam had been a sporting man, a hunter of the Red Fox, much in the manner of English Nobility, and so he had a bugle, and she knew exactly where it was, and "By Gosh!" she thought, it wasn't like Sam would be placing it in his mouth and such. And it would make a dandy funnel!

Well, she found that brass beauty, entered the stall and gave short comfort to Joshua as she inserted the mouthpiece in the proper orfice. In response to the brief note of B flat that was immediately issued, she replied sharply to Joshua, "I never liked it either!" Her hand reached for the bottle of castor oil, and I suppose it is easy to understand how it came to rest on, then grasped the WRONG bottle? "Now this won't hurt a little bit Joshua, and you'll be feeling fit as a fiddle in no time!" Glug-glug-glug-glug. Ga-lug.

There was a brief moment of silence as the hair on Joshua's back stood like that of a Halloween cat, an apparition Doc Taylor had not cautioned Widow Sarah about. It was starting to perplex her when Joshua let forth a mighty bray, reared up and then ran thru the wall of the barn! "OH MY!" she said in dismay, for she knew nothing about carpentry. Shortly after Joshua created the new door in the barn he found himself in the kennel pen amidst 12 of the finest fox hounds known in Franklin County... and then as if by magic there was a pretty big ole on the far side of the kennel! Ol' Joshua had to exert himself to get thru that wall, and in so doing vented a fair quantity of methane, which, when filtered through Sam's bugle sounded quite a bit like Sam bugling on the hunt! Well, they were game dogs, and the chase was on!

The last thing Widow Sarah heard of them was the fading trumpeting of the bugle, and the familiar barks and squalls of the hounds, lost in a pall of dust as they raced down Lidecker Lane 'neath the spreading walnut trees.

The first thing Stephen Fitzpatrick heard of al of this was the three clear blasts of the stern wheeler horn upriver. In the interest of brevity the question of wheter or not Patrick Fitzsteve will go begging. Suffice it to say that Stephen was near 75 years old and nearing retirement as the bridge tender for the Grover Franklin Bridge, which spanned Cold River, an artery of commerce in the area. He also didn't hear too well, that being another story as well. It was with some impatience that he set about opening the draw span, being a bit puzzled and irritated by the continuous blowing of the horn, and a building cresendo of noise both familiar and chaotic and the same time. He just couldn't quite figure out why they kept blowing the horn though, for in 52 years he'd never failed to have the bridge open before a stern wheeler passed the bridge fender.

The span finally opened, and Stephen was near the stage of pique that often proceeds colorful invective. He looked up river and saw that there was no boat! He turned and looked down river, and sure enough, no boat there either! Then finally the cacophany of horns and other discordant sounds drew so near that he realized that it wasn't a boat at all! NO! It was the ghost of Sam McCreary, off on his final fox hunt, and coming down the road at the bridge faster than a summer lightning bolt!

Now this has gone on long enough, and I think that with a minor amount of imagination you can figure out that life on the farm was very hard on the good Widow Sarah after that. It was a black day in Franklin County when they laid Mr. Fitzpatrick to rest. They never found the dogs, or Joshua, all having fallen to their doom in Cold River.

If there is a moral to this story it escapes me, but now you know the story of Widow McCreary's mule.

Dan

Pres., TYHC

www.MuleSkinner.Blues

Well it did have a happy ending.

FRED IS DEAD!!!

A 22Lr to the head would of saved a lot of money, and time.

Hog Killer

Ole' fred would have been long gone before I even thought about trying oil infused kitty crap,,,,In fact,,,the thing would have never got into the house.I liked the final pic.,,,,reminds me of one day I was doing some cleaning Clay

It starts alittle slow but the end is worth it ... Plugged cat
bill g.

Well yes, it was funny I suppose, in a left leaning liberal tree hugging kind of way. Best laugh was at the end(no pun) as you suggested. FRED's DEAD! ALL crats belong in "kitty heaven" I say.

Kitty Heaven - a place where dead crat spirits spend eternity being chased by large hungry dogs, and there are no trees. Where else would Dog Heaven be?

Dan

Pres., TYHC

www.GreatPhilosophical.Ruminations