Meet Butch Henry

When I first met my boy two Novembers ago, he was a goofy, gangly, spoiled, attention-loving 5- or 6-year-old kid named "Butch." The name was given him by his very young, very short happy-go-lucky bull-riding owner who clearly hoped for a very macho mule. And kissed his wannabe macho mule on the nose every morning, fed him apples and called him "Butchie-wutchie-poo."

At first I kept the name because it made me laugh.

Butchie-poo seeking the camera, November 2009

Manhandling young Butch, the macho he-mule, Feb. 2010

But soon, it became clear that the name was so hilariously ill-fitting, he really did need a new one. Something about Butch reminds me of a man I knew growing up, an old farmer who was the husband of Mrs. G, who took care of us kids. Henry. Mrs. G was Mrs. G, and Henry was always Henry. Our whole family loved Henry. He was a small, wirey old man who climbed the roof and shovelled snow til the day he died, and he lived to his 90s. Always smiling, always joking. Something about Butch's expression, the woeful eyes with a hint of mischief, his good nature... anyway, I decided to change Butch to Henry.

Just one problem. Butch knew the name "Butch."

And Butch was a handful. He had zero ground manners... none. He had to be taught not to drag his handler, not to run over him or her, not to knock people down with his chest (on purpose), not to charge at his handler in the round pen when he was pushed, not to butt anyone with his head, to wait to be given a treat (if he earned it), to keep a respectful distance at the gate, etc., etc....  I decided since he did know his name and responded to it, this was such a plus, not to mess with it.

Time went by. Butch grew up, filled out, matured, mellowed. He learned to carry a rider.

Tarp lesson, March 2010

At the lake, April 2010

Our first solo drive, December 2010

Rocking K, February 2011

Awaiting a ride, August 2011

Dragging the arena, November 2011

The multi-use riverwalk, December 2011

Riding the Rillito, December 2011

All packed up & ready to go, March 2012

Little did he know, he was being groomed for the ride of his life (up to that point). 

Texas. 

Highways. Oil trucks. Trains. Hardest of all... equine solitude.

If you've been following this blog, we all know how that went... but even with his meltdown, how brave was my mule! He dealt with all of it. His only downfall was the terrifying loneliness. And if he hadn't gotten injured, who knows how much more he might have proven himself.

So when we got back, in honor of his courage and newfound maturity, I decided he had earned his new name. From now on, Butch would be "Henry." 

Surprisingly, Henry seemed to like his new name. He even answered to it.

Everyone at the barn loved it. They all took to calling him Henry right away.

Just one problem. I couldn't remember it. I kept calling him Butch.

Then one day, when my mule was being especially trying, like an exasperated parent I found myself yelling, "Butch Henry, you QUIT that RIGHT NOW!" And with a guilty look, he did. 

Suddenly, we both knew his name. 

Meet Butch Henry. 

Mule extraordinaire.