Short Stories from Wing's Authors.

The Old Man and His Mule

by

JoEllen Conger

Once upon a time, toward the beginning of time when the land was new and all the continents and seas had not yet been named, an old man who had captained his vessel on many a turbulent unnamed sea, through typhoons and tidal waves, decided to leave the wild oceans of his youth to find some peaceful place for himself to live out the remainder of his natural life.

He contemplated the continent’s interior where seas didn’t howl, waves never froze and the sun was always warm. So he spent his last gold piece on an old tattered covered surrey and an equally swaybacked, lop-eared mule. He loaded the wagon with a few scraps of old lumber to build a roof over his head, some nails and enough supplies for a lonely old man and a sorry beast for as long as it might take them to find their quiet place in the sun. Neither he nor the mule needed an awful lot in their dotage.

The mule, though even-tempered, had but one gait and although the old man had run out of hurry long ago, he carried a buggy whip that he never laid to the bony backside of his mule; he saved it for barking dogs that took exception to the slowness of the old mule’s pace. And because the old man had no destination in mind he never got upset by the animal’s propensity to wander, which made not the least whit of bother in the lands where roads to follow had not yet been built.

As they meandered from neighborhood wells, water holes and creeks, the mule always seemed to know just where the next water could be found and managed to get his master there in time for day’s end, just as the sun began to set behind the mountains. And when trouble was nearby, the mule’s lop-ear stood at attention. In this way the old man avoided danger before they reached it and because the beast was so shrewd, the old man began to talk to his mule like a wise and trusted companion.

As they traveled at a snail’s pace thither and yon the old man hadn’t much to do but keep himself upright on the wagon’s wooden bench and so, one hot and humid afternoon, he addressed his faithful steed.

“With an animal as wise as yourself, what respectful name could a man bestow upon you that would give you the honor you so rightfully deserve? I once had a dog by the name of Oliver, but you don’t remind me of an Oliver. And many years ago when my father was younger even than I am today he had a stallion by the name of Rasputin. But that name wouldn’t suit you either. What name would fit a mule of your worth? It’s quite a dilemma, I must admit.

“I had an aunt a long time ago, God rest her soul, who had a houseful of cats. And she up and told me one fine day that even though we human’s don’t acknowledge that animals have enough wit to choose their own names, she none the less gave each cat the right to pick a name for itself. Now, mind you, if you go and select a name for your own self, as you have every right to do, well, it’s got to be a name a man can rightfully pronounce. You can’t have a man gurgling down in his throat or whinnying or nothing like that. Hey!  Don’t you think it would be wiser if we passed this old stump on the downhill side? It sure would make a heap more sense to me.”

The mule glanced over his shoulder with pity in his eyes and blew a noisy snort of dissension through his quivering nostrils.

“Don’t matter to me none if you want to make more work out of it than need be. You’re the one pulling the wagon, not me. Me...I just sit here with no say a’tall and wherever you wind up, well, that’s the place you’ll get your grain and beer, just like you had a lick of sense.”

When they had finally cleared the far side of the fallen tree, the old man could see a deep crater that would have been directly in the wagon’s path had they passed the stump on the downhill side. The mule snickered and made a half-hearted attempt at kicking up his heels.

“Well, you don’t have to go and get smart-alecky about it! I see it. So, if you think you’re so much smarter than this old man, go ahead. Pick out a name for yourself, if you’re so dang smart.” The old man waited out the lengthy silence that followed before he went on.

“Can’t think of nothing, eh? Well, maybe you’re a mule destined to live out his days with no name. When all the little kiddies in the next hamlet come running up to feed you carrots, what shall I tell them?  ‘Yep, that’s right, don’t you never mind, he’s just a mule with no name.’ That’s what I’ll tell them, less’en you can figger out something better.”

The mule tripped over a small stone and the wagon jerked as the old tottery animal fought to keep his scrawny legs in their rightful places. He came to a complete standstill and turned his myopic eyes to stare over his shoulder at the old man. His lop-ear stood up proudly while he puckered up his lips.

“George wouldn’t be half bad,” the mule suggested before he resumed his appointed task of pulling the wagon. “I’ve always been partial to the name George.”