This new one-half of our diminished team was a mare mule named "Cotton". This odd choice of name should of been clue number one. Either the mule or the Cajun we bought her off of (Excuse me, traded her out of.) had to be a little touched. Yes she looked to be exactly what we wanted, but not one to be impressed by the mere look of an animal my father and his racing "team" (Drinking Buddies) wanted to see her in action.
She was already caught, a detail that later comes into play, so they commenced to harnessing her. Wanting to get a feel for "Cotton" daddy harnessed her himself, she was slightly prancy until the blinders were put on her, something common with many mules. Something uncommon with mules is when the intoxicated owner of the mule yells out, "Watcher, that mule would kick Jee-sus Kah-rist himself!" as you begin to put the component of the harness on known as britchin'. "Cotton" drove well as promised, as long as the mule she was hooked to minded himself/herself. With that a deal was struck, hands where shook , and buyers remorse started in.
The three mules of ours (or from now on there's.) were shortly caught, loaded, and legally owned by a man I still only know as "Fat Daddy". (Kinda explains a little about the poor mule's name.) And we (or should i say my father as I washed my hands of the whole affair.) turned our new mule out in a small round pen. Another red flag should have been when her increasingly more intoxicated former owner slurred, "Gooood, luck shortttty catchin' yer mule in tha mawnin', yer gonna need it."
This amazingly bad trade was followed by a long night of fellowship in which the 17 people present consumed over 100 pounds of crawfish, several ears of corn, and half a bushel of potatoes starting at seven o'clock in the evening and ending at around three o'clock the next morning.
