It’s The Pitts: Long Ears

Some acquaintances accidentally attended the big Mule Days celebration in Bishop, Calif., and after watching these marvelous beasts of burden in races, obstacle courses and packing competitions, they came home with the idea they were going to chuck their good-paying jobs and start breeding mules. 

I guess no one told them mules are sterile, and they have as much chance of giving birth to offspring as Bruce Jenner.

After they got back from Bishop, Calif., they told me all of the wonderful ways a mule is the most magnificent animal on Earth, and they were under the impression there’s a shortage of them. 

I pleaded with them not to do anything rash, but they sold their beautiful home and bought a 20-acre ranchette near Death Valley which should have been their first clue this would not be the best investment they ever made. 

Somehow, I became their unpaid consultant on their new venture, and my phone rang off the hook with questions.

Their first question was, “If the mule is sterile, how do we actually go about having baby mules?”

“To get a mule, you must cross a male donkey with a female horse,” I explained. “The male donkey is often also referred to in historical documents as a wild ass jack.” 

This should have been their second clue this would not end well.

“So if we understand you correctly, we can’t get another mule by breeding two mules?” they asked somewhat belatedly.

“That is correct,” I answered.

About two months later they asked, “We did what you suggested and bought a male donkey and a female horse, but how do you physically get a three-foot donkey to breed a six-foot tall horse?”

“First of all, I never suggested you buy either a donkey or a horse,” I stated. “But now that you are already in over your heads, I see two ways you might get your donkey to breed your mare. You could either build a three-feet tall mounting platform or you could find a steep hill, face the mare in a downhill direction and place the donkey on top of the hill from whence he could mount his attack, so to speak.”

Two months later, I received my last call. 

“We’ve decided breeding mules is just too hard, so we’re moving to Texas. Would you take our donkey and our mule off of our hands for free if we delivered them to you this Saturday?” they begged.

I felt sorry for them, so in a weak moment, I agreed to take the ass family off of their hands. 

“But I’ll be at a bull sale this weekend so just leave them in my old horse trailer at the ranch,” I instructed them.

On Sunday morning, I went to see the latest members of my menagerie. The donkey was shaking like a Chihuahua trying to pass a peach pit and hiding in the manger of the trailer, but the only evidence of the mule was the kicked-out tailgate. 

I sold the Methodist Church on the idea they needed a real, live donkey in the nativity scene at their Christmas pageant, and they agreed to take the donkey off of my hands. But I’m told dealing with the donkey really tested the Methodist’s faith and vocabulary.

I never did see or hear about the missing mule. I figure he’d departed for Amish country 2,000 miles away where he’d be more appreciated or he escaped into the big state park where he’s done great work in reducing the mountain lion, bear and rattlesnake populations. 

But he still could be in the vicinity and might cause a wreck on the highway, and because at this point the legal ownership of the mule is not crystal clear, I figured the relatives of anyone killed in a car wreck would go after the deepest pockets, which would be me after my ex-friends lost everything trying to get mules to breed

So, I tightened the biosecurity at the ranch by putting in a more substantial entry gate with a padlock the size of a dinner plate so the mule could not reenter the ranch – and to discourage my former friends from adding to what they now perceived as a sanctuary for long-ears and so the Methodists couldn’t offload a donkey they were now praying to God to be rid of.