Benjamin Franklin

I was sorting some of my pictures and came across this gem. Let me introduce you to my friend Benjamin Franklin. Ben is a mule that my dad bought a couple of summers ago. He got his name because we paid one hundred dollars for him. For those of you not familiar with livestock, you usually get what you pay for and a hundred bucks isn’t much for a mule. Ben only cost that much because he hadn’t been packed much and never had been ridden. He is kind of small so you probably wouldn’t want to ride him much anyway. But my dad isn’t one to shy away from opportunity.

So I guess it was the end of summer in 2006 that I went home to spend a little time with my family. My dad was off in the woods working I think and we all ended up going down to the farm to check on the horses. The conversation came up about our little mule and how he got his name. Sara, being the trouble maker in the family, thought it would be funny if one of us tried to ride him. I didn’t really think it was that good of an idea, until she made it clear that if I didn’t try I was just a chicken. Of course I would never turn away from such a challenge. It just so happened that my saddle was in the truck so I saddle Ben up for the first time ever. I made sure that we were in the field far enough that if he did decide to buck, the landing would be a smooth one.

As you can tell, my first attempt to get on wasn’t so successful. The only thing that I had going for me was that he was so small that I could pretty much man handle him and make him cooperate. I finally made it up on his back, to his dislike.

Ben never did buck, however he tried to run me through some trees. I really wish that we had got it on film. As he “loped” across the pasture I was doing my best to slow him down. He wasn’t having it. We jumped the irrigation ditch and right into the thick of the elm trees that line its banks. At that point I decided that I had done my part and stepped off. Ben ran through the trees, scratching up my saddle, and finally stopped about a quarter of a mile later on the other end of the holding tank.

If you asked Ben he would tell you that he had won the battle. I never did ride him again and as far as I know my dad sold him last year. But ask me and I’ll tell you how I got the best of the poor little guy. And ask my sister and she’ll tell you that I’m no chicken.