Vinegar

Vinegar, Stanley Carruthers’ irksome, hateful mule; was the ugliest, dumbest animal in Wise County. Stanley and Viola Carruthers were the Easley’s neighbors and best friends.
Vinegar hated the harness. Stanley would approach the mule, determined to hitch him to the plow. Vinegar was equally committed to fight the process, by twisting his rump in a frenzied bounce. The demented beast’s screams were heard for half a mile in any direction. Vinegar eventually surrendered, ending the tirade with a weakly croaked lament, “hee-haw, hee-haw.”
Stanley could not keep that mule penned; he was an escape artist. Vinegar used his ugly face as a breakout device. He’d choose a fence post, then firmly plant his face against the pole. Neighbors, entertained by Vinegar’s persistence, swore the mule prayed for freedom, as he pushed his bowed head against the post until it surrendered. When the fence toppled, Vinegar would look defiantly in the direction of the Carruthers’ house, emit a joyous cackle, and tread cautiously over the downed, barbed wire fence.
Though amused by his antics, none of the neighbors wanted Vinegar on their property. He was ornery, and cantankerous. Even worse, he bit people. Vinegar had a hyena-like escape giggle, a surefire warning for the neighbors. That dependable foretelling was the one good thing neighbors could say about Vinegar.
Ragged tablecloths or old bed sheets, stored on neighbor’s front porches, were anti-Vinegar kits. When the mule unleashed his juddered chortle, all available hands grabbed a rag, ran to the road, and waved ole Vinegar past. Often a dignified nod, or a pleasant grin crossed his lips, as if the trotting mule acknowledged his audience. After he’d passed a few farms, the neighbors would speculate on his destination; no one wanted to miss this show, and Vinegar would not disappoint.

Princess was Grandpa Holt’s prized mare, a work horse, but a beauty just the same. Vinegar fancied Princess. It was an unrequited love. Vinegar revealed his intentions by biting Princess on her rump. She responded with a back kick to his face. Luckily, she could outrun the mule.
Grandpa Holt hated that mule and threatened to shoot it the next time it trespassed on to his property. He’d sight Vinegar in on his loaded finger-revolver and release several imaginary bullets, “p-shew, p-shew, p-shew.” Fortunately, no actual gun report was ever heard.
When Vinegar announced he was going courting, Stanley dropped what he was doing to pursue the runaway. Stanley approached the mule swinging a harness, and spewing an annoying whistle in shrill, quivering spurts. Vinegar’s response was to bare his big yellowed teeth, emit a boisterous hinny laugh, and bolt away.
Now, this particular escape occurred on a Sunday, so most of the Holt clan had gathered for Sunday dinner. It was winter, and icy. George Easley spotted Vinegar running into the pasture. He grabbed his coat and headed out to help Stanley. The Holt boys were bored, so they bundled up and ventured out also.
The boys decided the first step was to move Princess to the barn. Vinegar stood between Princess and the barn door. He flashed an evil grin at his tormentors.
Royce Holt grabbed a bit and bridle from inside the barn. While Stanley enticed Vinegar with a bag of oats, Royce circled behind the ornery animal. Fastening the bridle, he ushered Princess to safety through the back, barn door.
Vinegar stopped eating, and raised his oat-flecked face to look around. Princess was gone. He screamed like a banshee and trotted away, leaving a trail of oats on the ground. Running to the barn, he placed his face on the door. His indignant cries changed pitch like an operatic tragedy.
George grinned at Stanley, “You don’t think he could actually down that barn, do you?”
Stanley chuckled and shook his head, “I won’t say no. I didn’t think he could push down a fence post either, but he does.”
Meanwhile, the fence-line spectators started moseying home. It was cold and the show was over, but they were glad they’d watched.

Back at the house, five-year-old Lucille had an urgent need. Her ten-year-old sister, Irene, was instructed to take her to see Aunt Lu. “An adult calling the outhouse Aunt Lu is ridiculous,” Irene grumbled. The mule, and the barn were on the east side of the farm. The outhouse was west of the house. It seemed everything was under control.
Of all the grandchildren in the house that day, Irene was most afraid of Vinegar. They’d had several run-ins; once he even tried to bite her. Irene hated that beast. She also knew what would happen if she disobeyed her mother. Irene callously grabbed Lucille by the hand, and dragged her outside. The ground was icy and they began shoe skating toward the outhouse. Irene did a 360 spin and giggled. Lucille nearly slid down; she screamed, then started laughing. Now she really had to go, and began performing the potty dance.
Irene heard a snort coming from the front of the house. “Vinegar!” her quivery voice whispered. The night mare of all night mares. Her heart thumped in her chest. Vinegar was likely to thump the rest of her body. The mule gave that dreaded hinny laugh, and skidded toward the girls. His four legs stiffened and he spun uncontrollably. Irene pushed Lucille towards the outhouse. Lucille fell but was able to crawl to the structure. She opened the door and held it for her imperiled sister. Irene lost her footing when she shoved Lucille. The last thing Irene saw before she slid under that cantankerous mule was his ugly, yellow grin. Vinegar stood on shaky legs looking down at her. “What if he falls on me?” she thought.
“Get away from me you shit-faced, dumb-assed, fart!” she’d heard those same words spew from Stanley’s lips countless times.
As the last of her rant surged from her lips, George Easley appeared. He grabbed Irene’s feet and pulled her out. “What did you say?” He couldn’t believe his daughter knew such words.
“I heard Stanley call him all those words and worse. Some of his words start with “B” but I would never say bastard or bitch’s son or even hell,” Irene presented her best innocent look to her father; then turning her head, and staring at Vinegar added, “Not even . . . Damn!”
George snorted. “Never say those words again, and do not mention this to your mother. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lucille began crying. “I wet my pants when Vinegar ran at us. I’m cold.”
“I’m sure grandma has something you can wear home. George picked up his wet daughter, and carried her to the front porch. “Bertie, Lucille needs your help.” George yelled but didn’t go inside.
Stanley rounded the corner of the house holding a bit and bridle, and for the first time ever, Vinegar took the bit without protest.

George hitched his horses, and helped load his family into the wagon. Stanley tied Vinegar to the back before he jumped in. Vinegar protested loudly, straining against the moving vehicle. He tried to plop his rump on the ground, but the wagon’s momentum prevented that. Vinegar hee-hawed his displeasure.
When they reached the Carruthers farm, Stanley released Vinegar into the pasture. The mule trotted down the fence-line until he came to a post that seemed to be leaning . . . just a bit.