From My Uncle Vellanoff’s Journal 

 Anybody Want A Mule? 

    One spring we were booked to play the El Tovar Hotel in Grand Canyon National Park. The Hotel had a small auditorium where they put on top-notch entertainment for their guests. 
    We were all excited because none of us had had the opportunity to see this National Park. As we traveled by train, we had time to contemplate and discuss the fun we were going to have on this gig. I had no idea that this fun would come with two big ears, and a warped sense of humor. 
    The show’s producer had recently hired a three member Hawaiian group -- two sisters, Nana and Kaila, and Nana’s husband, Keanu. The ladies would do the hula, very effectively I might add, and the man did a spear-juggling act where, for his big finale, he would light the spears on fire. The fire was real, and the spears were sharp. All three played the ukulele, steel guitar and pahupai (drum), and sang. It was a good act. 
    We were scheduled to put on a show every night for one week. That didn’t leave much time for sightseeing, but we were agitating for a couple extra days off at the end of the engagement. 
    On our third night, the Hawaiian act was in full swing when some young huddlehunce in the audience thought it would be fun to hit our juggler with a spit wad powered by a rubber band. His aim was extraordinary, as the projectile hit Keanu beside his right eye. 
    It was startling enough that he put a little too much effort into one of his tosses of a burning spear. It went up into the ceiling beams, stuck there, and started a fire. The natural excitement of watching a man juggling sharp burning spears reached a new level in short order. Our MC asked everyone to leave in an orderly fashion. 
    Those instructions were ignored after the first three seconds. No one was hurt as a result of the fire, but the stampede to get away from the fire put thirteen people in the local infirmary. We didn’t know if one of them was our spit-wad artist, but we were hopeful.
    The Hotel’s owner told us that it would be three days before the fire damage to the auditorium was repaired. Suddenly we had some free time. 
    Ten of us decided to take the mules down to the bottom of the Canyon. It sounded like fun. We were assured that these mules had made this trip numerous times, and that it was completely safe. 
    The following morning we arrived at the mule corral. We’d never done any horseback riding, or even spent time around horses. The wranglers asked each of us about our riding experience, and on hearing mine, gave me a mount that they said was gentle and loved people. 
    One of the wranglers led me over to my mule, who acted totally disinterested in me and what we were about to do. I walked up, patted him on the nose and said, “We’re going to get along just fine, okay?” 
    As I turned to watch the wrangler demonstrate the proper way to mount one of these animals, I felt this severe pain in my left shoulder and found my feet a couple inches off the ground. The mule had his huge set of teeth clamped on my shoulder and was actually lifting me off the ground. 
    I said a few unchristian words and tried to reach around and whack the mule on his nose. That seemed to amuse my attacker. Finally, he put me down and just stood there with a stupid grin on his face. I shouted at the nearest wrangler, “Did you see what this dumb mule just did?” 
    The wrangler admitted that he hadn’t seen anything, so I explained it to him. While I was telling him this, the mule, still with that stupid grin on his face, was nuzzling my shoulder like we were best friends. Right in the middle of my tale of woe, I realized that this mule was running a con on these poor wranglers, and unless I decided to opt out of this trip down the Canyon, I was stuck with this wily beast. 
    Once the wranglers had us all mounted we headed for the edge of the Canyon and the trail. As we went from flat terrain to the downward-sloping trail, my mule did a little shuffle step with his hoofs, which for a second gave me the impression that he was falling. 
     My stomach was in my throat and the adrenaline was running rampant through my system. At that moment I probably could have carried the mule. 
    After his little trick, the mule shook his head and let out with a quiet hee-haw. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn he was laughing. 
    I reached forward, grabbed one long mule ear, twisted it around so he could hear me better, and uttered a couple somewhat unchristian comments. The mule ignored my suggestions and didn’t seem concerned by my threats. 
    At this point the trail had nothing scary about it, only that it was going downhill some. Within five minutes this changed. The trail turned into a one-sided nightmare. By one-sided, I mean that on one side of the trail we had a wall of rock and on the other side we had nothing. As uncomfortable as this was, it did give me an opportunity for some scientific inquiry. It was the first time I had been able to observe eagles from above. It was mildly interesting, if I didn’t think about it too much. 
    The people who made this trail figured we would need an additional thrill, so every once in a while they made the trail go back the way we had just come, except, of course, a lot lower. I heard the wranglers refer to these phenomena as ‘switchbacks.’ 
    Now as the mule and I were making one of these turns, there were a couple seconds where we were headed straight toward, and about two steps from the abyss. 
    That’s when my mule tried his little double shuffle again. I thought it had scared me the first time, but, oh boy! This was a whole new level of excitement than I’d ever experienced before. Even while being shot at when trying to leave Russia, I’d not been this scared. When they caught me and I was thrown into the infamous Labyanka Prison, I’d not been this scared. When the secret police were preparing me for torture (they thought some foreign power was paying me to escape), I had not been this scared. In the process of escaping from the prison and hiding in a wagonload of turnips for two days, I’d not been this scared. But I digress. 
    Once my mule was going straight down the trail again, I concentrated on getting my heart rate down to something reasonable. It took a while, but when it was under control, I had another conference with my mule. I got him by an ear and explained to him the facts of life as I saw them, like what was acceptable and what wasn’t. This time when I got the head shake and the quiet hew-haw, I knew for sure he was laughing. 
    After calling him several more uncomplimentary names, he stopped dead still with his head drooping and his ears hanging down alongside his face. I shook the reins, kicked my heels into his sides, and made clicking noises with my tongue. I’d seen this done someplace. Nothing worked. If I hadn’t know better I would have guessed I’d hurt his feelings. 
    Finally, a wrangler noticed my situation and yelled, “Andy, move your ass!” 
    I shouted back, “My name isn’t Andy, and I’ve been trying to do just that.” 
    Come to find out, my mule’s name was Andy. The effect of the wrangler’s shouted instructions had the effect of getting Andy moving again. 
    He tried the double shuffle twice more, but I was learning when he would try it, so was more of less ready for him. When Andy figured out I wasn’t reacting to his little trick any longer he quit. The rest of the ride to the bottom of the Canyon and then back up to the rim was uneventful. 
    Two days later the auditorium repairs were completed and the shows started again. For the next couple months whenever somebody wanted me to do something they would say, “Andy, move your ass!” 
    Everyone in the troupe seemed to think this was hilarious.