I know, I know. Henry the Eighth said it about Thomas More and he said priest and not mule. But I know exactly how he felt. We both suffer(ed) from the same ominous, everpresent, pestilent force that makes every waking moment a struggle.
Our paddock looks like the Mississippi Delta in flood season. If it weren't for the floating blocks of ice, I'm sure we could grow a bumper crop of rice. This means that I must navigate my way around very, very carefully or risk an impromptu soaking. There I was, at the edge of the lake at the barn door, planning a clever route of three steps along the side of the barn, a hop onto a small island and a larger leap into the run-in. I was so engrossed in my calculations that I failed to hear the sound of tiny hoofs approaching at mach3. A shrill voice screamed "Incoming, get outta my way, lard butt" and I was launched violently into the middle of the lake. TJ trampled me underfoot and made it into the run-in, bone-dry, where he did a victory dance.
It didn't stop there. The people-door to our run in is tied back during the day so it doesn't flap around and TJ has taken great joy in pulling on the string and wiggling the door with his nose. Today I was making a hasty run for the barn, with the mule-cockroach on my tail. Imagine my surprise when I attempted to escape into the run-in and encountered a closed door. He had cunningly worked the string off the handle and slammed the door. The results were predictable - my profile is now considerably flatter. The crash was made even worse by his entire weight, combined with high speed, magnifying the overall impact. He said it didn't hurt a bit and why did I appear to have steam coming out of my ears. Gahhhh!
Now I understand the saying "Mad as a March hare", they're referring to TJ.