The Farrier Who Offered to Let Me Shoe My Own Mule
PublishedMarch 20, 2004
I, Bernie Harberts, did not use generative AI to write or illustrate this article. Spell check and grammar check, yes. AI, no.
Woody seems recovered from last night’s bout of melancholia and greeted his feed bucket with the usual flared nostrils and relish. He’s still working on the bray. He’s still not drinking much, though, which I think may be partly due to the large amount of fresh clover, fescue and weeds he’s munching along the way.
Even the issue of his feet seems to be improving. He never was a fan of having his feet picked up and messed with. Right after I bought him I made it a habit of picking up his front feet every day and tapping on them with a hoofpick in a sorry attempt to replicate the hammering of a nailing hammer. He’d hop around on three legs and pull back. But in time he learned to stand quietly. I guess it worked. Mel Wyatt and I fooled him into a pair of shoes before I left on our trip.
Shoes that are now falling off.
His back seems improved overnight though. Still I spend fifteen minutes using my fingers to break the mud out of his coat. I run my fingers along both sides of his backbone, like I’m kneading dough, and work my way to his hindquarters.
Later in the day, Woody got a new pair of shoes. Now if there’s one thing I’m picky about it’s taking care of Woody’s feet. One bad nail or too much hoof trimmed off, a condition known as “quicking,” and our trip is over. At a quarter inch of hoof per month, it takes a long time for mistakes to grow out. Blacksmithing tools are just too heavy to carry on the road so one must trust whatever farrier one comes across.
Well, after hounding the farrier about “keeping the same angle, see here…” and “I only want a four nail job…” and “Have you ever shod a mule before?” it came to a head. He politely offered to rent me tools so I could shoe Woody myself and he could watch and learn. I got the point. Woody also got a great pair of shoes. Thanks Johnie for a shoeing job done right!
Woody carried his new steel from Pine Cliffs to North Harlowe after one wrong turn in the swamp. That makes for a seven mile day if you don’t count the three mile wander among the muck. Woody ended the day under a dormant mimosa, its purple blossoms still asleep in the twigs. I met my end in the tent listening to fescue blades shredding under old mule teeth.
Sign up for The River, the RiverEarth newsletter, for occasional doses of rambling and homestead life. Plus you'll get a free copy of my 155-page illustrated ebook 19 Million Mule Steps.
Leave a Reply