Lionel the mini-mule

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

It's a quite common sight: a stray kitten is tenderly brought home in the arms of a round-eyed child, proclaiming, "But it'll die if we don't keep it!"

Or...

a thin, wormy, female mixed-breed, freshly torn from a litter of puppies is kicked out of a car on a quiet road. This I expect: we live in the country. We've already taken in the above, described, most dearest of terriers. What I was completely unprepared for, however, was Paul coming back to the barn one freezing morning not too long ago.

Normally, when Paul returns quickly after leaving for the nursery it's because he's forgotten his wallet. Or laptop. Or office keys. Or pants.

This day was different. He drove his Honda right up to the barn where I was nearly finished mucking out.

"Do you have an extra halter I can borrow?" he asked.

Now, c'mon, that's a loaded question.

"Someone's dumped a horse up at the nursery." he went on to explain.

"A horse? Someone dumped a horse?" I said, in disbelief. "How big? What size halter?"

Paul leveled his hand around mid-chest. An experienced, equestrian eye would figure that to be about 15.2 hands. I grabbed a "Cob" sized halter and jumped in the car with him to appraise the latest foundling. When we arrived at the nursery, one of Paul's employees was holding by the mane, a thin, shaggy, chestnut mini-mule, all of about ten hands in height. He could have worn the halter as a truss. I looked at Paul. "Your sense of perception seems to be off."

"Well," he replied. "I saw him from a distance."

This from the man who built a linen wardrobe for me that we, literally, could not get it into the house. He also purchased two rocking chairs for our front deck that are exact replicas of that giant chair on the hill on the way to Pumpkintown. I find him to be a latent admirer of Paul Bunyon.

Anyway, that's how it began. The mystery of Lionel (named after the curmudgeon character in the Brit sit-com, "As Time Goes By") became a bit clearer when it was learned that he had been removed from one field for chasing calving cows and broke out of his confinement at another place. We heard through the grapevine that the owner was quite relieved that we had taken him in. We tended to his overgrown hooves, gave him his shots, wormed him and received a kick in the thigh for our efforts. The vet said he's about twenty-five years old.

Paul is enamored with him. He led Lionel home from the nursery with a newly purchased, jaunty red halter and lead. A winter, foal-sized, blanket secured the animal from the biting winds.

When he arrived home, he was introduced to his new room mate, my twenty-seven year old draft horse, Moose, and immediately lay down in a fresh bed of shavings and fell into a deep sleep. In the morning, Paul was up before dawn, bringing his new pet an armful of hay and breaking the ice in the water trough. He was head-butted for his trouble.

A man and a mini-mule. It's a beautiful thing.