William Faulkner observed, “A mule will labor willingly and patiently for you for ten years for the privilege of kicking you once.”
The great writer theorized that vindictiveness is as common among these unmannered ungulates as their derisive bray. One fine spring day on my father’s Mississippi Delta Farm, my pal Earl and I learned all about the vindictiveness of mules.
“Y’all don’t fool with Jezebel while I’m gone,” Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor said. He had dealt with mules all his life, and knew that, far from being dumb as most folks thought, mules are as smart as they are mean and malicious.
“That mule hates everybody ’cep me,” Jaybird said. “She’s meaner than a rattlesnake, and nothing pleases her more than hurtin’ the creatures she hates most: people.”
No sooner had Jaybird’s old truck pulled away from the barn than we grabbed the bridle. The giant hee-haw hybrid took the bit without complaint.
“Let’s ride to Mr. Guido’s and chunk rocks at turtles in the creek that runs through his place,” Earl suggested, as he slapped leather on withers. “Git up, dumb jackass — this ain’t Jaybird riding you now.” Jezebel’s long, laid-back ears signified she was in mule murder mode.
Shifting gears, our mount clippity-clopped from walk to trot to canter to all-out gallop. Together we didn’t weigh 150 pounds – no burden at all for the powerful animal – as her pace increased. With the wind in our faces, we whooped with glee.
But there was one problem. Riding bare-backed, we were slowly inching forward and had nothing to grab hold of, Jezebel’s mane being neatly trimmed. Suddenly, Earl’s legs slipped over the mule’s shoulders and down her long neck he slid.
Earl’s weight drove Jezebel’s nose into the ground, which smarted mightily, instantly turning her thickly muscled neck into a catapult that flung Earl into the troposphere. As he rocketed upward, I caught a glimpse of the wavy pattern on the soles of his Converse tennis shoes.
Immediately, Jezebel squatted and flexed her massive haunches, volleying me like a rock from a slingshot. Earl reached zenith and entered perigee as I soared in apogee. From opposing flight paths, we exchanged terrified glances.
Bruised and stunned, we lay moaning in the dust, listening to the fading rhythm of Jezebel’s hooves. As we helped each other along, everything between toenails and towheads ached, pride included.
Jezebel was grazing peacefully when we hobbled up. Staring balefully at us, she pointed her ears forward, rolled back her lips, bared domino-sized yellow teeth, and set to braying so loudly we never even heard Jaybird’s truck behind us.
Taking one look at two bruised, abraded, battered, bleeding boys and another at his vindicated mule, the old black man knew what happened.
After Jezebel and Jaybird exchanged knowing glances, he looked back at us, shook his head, spewed a stream of tobacco juice, and said, “I told y’all, Jezebel ain’t no lady; she’s jes’ what I warned y’all she is — one mean mule.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
William Faulkner observed, “A mule will labor willingly and patiently for you for ten years for the privilege of kicking you once.”
The great writer theorized that vindictiveness is as common among these unmannered ungulates as their derisive bray. One fine spring day on my father’s Mississippi Delta Farm, my pal Earl and I learned all about the vindictiveness of mules.
“Y’all don’t fool with Jezebel while I’m gone,” Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor said. He had dealt with mules all his life, and knew that, far from being dumb as most folks thought, mules are as smart as they are mean and malicious. 
