Some acquaintances accidentally attended the big Mule Days celebration in Bishop, California, and after watching these marvelous beasts of burden in races, obstacle courses and packing competitions they came home with the idea that 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 they told me all the wonderful ways that a mule is the most magnificent animal on earth and they were under the impression that 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 that 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 “The male donkey is often also referred to in historical documents as a wild ass jack.”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 that 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.”

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. 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 3 foot tall mounting platform or you could find a steep hill, face the mare in a downhill direction and place the donkey on top the hill from whence he could mount his attack, so to speak.”

Two months later I received my last call. “We’ve decided that breeding mules is just too hard so we’re moving to Texas. Would you take our donkey and our mule off 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 their hands. “But I’ll be at a bull sale this weekend so just leave them in my old horse trailer at the ranch.”

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 that they needed a real live donkey in the nativity scene at their Christmas pageant and they agreed to take the donkey off my hands and I’m told that dealing with that 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.

Recently my elderly wife and I were discussing when old age officially begins. I asked, “How old does a person have to be to be considered old?”

“Depends,” she answered.

“Is that your answer?” I asked. “That a person isn’t considered old until they have to start wearing adult diapers?”

“I’ve always thought that a man wasn’t old until he reached 72,” I told my wife, “because when I was born, in 1951, the life expectancy for a man was 72 and for a woman it was 76. Let’s see, how old am I? Holy cow I’m 73! When did that happen? I thought getting old would take a lot longer.”

My wife replied, “Old age is when you go from forgetting to pull up the zipper on your pants to forgetting to pull it down.”

Truer words were never spoken.

I’ve always been an avid reader of obituaries because it always made me feel better because I was younger than most folks in the obits but now that my classmates are dying like flies I’ve sworn off reading them. It’s just as well because the cataracts in my eyes make everything blurry anyway. I’ve always been one to respect my elders but now that I am one… not so much!

I can’t remember being given a senior citizen’s discount until yesterday which caused me to be honest with myself and to take an inventory. Needless to say I’m a lot closer to the end than I am the beginning. I’ve abused my body for 73 years and just worked too hard for far too long. So now I get winded brushing my teeth and it takes me all day to get nothing done and I’m falling behind on my work. A column that used to take me three hours to write now takes me three days! It takes me longer to rest than it did to get tired in the first place. Around our house the term “happy hour” refers to my three hour nap. It’s true what they say, old age is like a fine old wine… we should be laid on our side and left alone to gather dust.

In dog years I’m dead. If I knew I was going to live this long I’d have taken a lot better care of myself but in my defense the doctors thought I was a goner when I hit 40. Looking back now I think perhaps I should have quit while I was ahead.

I’ll tell you how bad it is: You know those chairs you see advertised on television that you sit in and it runs you up and down stairs? Well, we’re considering getting one! We’re also considering getting one of those reclining chairs that when brought to their full upright position propels you skyward like a catapult. SPLAT!

In all honesty, I’m just plumb wore out. If I were a tractor or a bulldozer I’d have 15,000 hours on my clock and be scrapped; if I were an old bull I’d be sent to the auction market; and if I were a house I’d be considered a tear down. Alas, I am just a humble human just three steps from the back end of a hearse and one step away from the rest home, geezer camp, heaven’s waiting room or assisted care. All synonyms, by the way, for a cell block for old farts. I have the shelf life of black bananas.

I guess I’ve answered my own question. I AM OLDER THAN DIRT. I knew the dust on my furniture back when it was still a rock. They say the oldest thing on earth is a 12,000 year old tree. Sad to say, I think I planted that sucker.

Thanks to a stroke I can’t drive and my back goes out more often than I do. I go to w-a-a-y more funerals than I do weddings and the only advantage to that is I don’t have to buy a gift for the deceased. I guess I could but what good would it do?

You’ll really know you’re old when it finally dawns on you that all those rusty relics you spent “collecting” at estate sales and farm auctions were just so your spouse could sell them at you’re own dispersal for half of what you paid.