Rural Heritage June/July 2026

I traced the X from ear to eye across his forehead, in what could be called a Maltese cross, but, in fact, it was to make sure I would find the spot to do the deed as exactly and perfectly as I could. It was bad enough to contemplate doing it, but I didn't want to have to do it twice. He didn't deserve that, and I knew I surely didn't want that. I told him how sorry I was, but that once again, I'd remove his pain. I told him how much I appreciated all he had done for me over the years while inwardly I cursed myself for letting myself get so attached to a mule. “I’ll be double damned,” I said, “if I ever have another damned pet to have to shoo t when they get too damned old and feeble to get around.” I waited until he was calm and seemed as relaxed as he was going to be and didn't want to wait until I was too shaken to be of any use, and I squeezed the trigger. Later that night, Jerry and I drank a toast of good Scotch to Old Doc. “You're a tough old bird,” Jerry said, “I don't think I could have done it.” “Thank you” I replied,“I am glad you appreciate how it is tough, and how hard it is to do something like that. I damn well hate having to be tough, but if we're going to keep'em we have to be ready to do what is required for them. I reckon if the situation was reversed, I'd want someone to do the same for me.” We didn't talk much more about it. We finished our whisky, and drifted on in thought, remembering riding a good grey mule to check cattle on a warm day in a green field.

and put a little out for him and the mare mules. As they picked through the flakes of hay, I drove to the feed store to pick up a few things. When I returned, I saw right away that something was wrong. Doc was lying on his side with his head pointed downhill toward the creek. He was pawing and thrashing about, trying to get back up. I walked to him and when I spoke his name, he stopped. He relaxed and raised his head to look at me. He nickered as if to say,“I've sure done it this time!” I patted him again and told him to “Whoa.” He lay relaxed while I returned with a halter and lead rope. I thought I might be able to pull him around and help to get him back on his feet, but it just wasn't going to happen. He was too weak. I swung him around on his side, place his legs back under him and rolled him up on his side. He lay still while I went to the creek for a bucket of water and took a few slow sips while I held it to his muzzle. He grunted his contentment and took a deep breath, then rubbed the back of his head against my leg. I sat down beside him and scratched the top of his head. I knew it was over and that he wasn't getting back up. I talked to him and petted him, making sure he was calm and relaxed. Then, I got up and walked back to the house for the rifle. I half hoped on the return to find him up and standing at the gate. It wasn't to be. He remained exactly where I had left him, as I knew deep down he would. I sat back down, talking to him and petting him, more for myself now than for him. As I rubbed his face,

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Rural Heritage

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