The Yale Yule Mule

Yale, 1885>

(The Long Version)

I was minding my own business; munching on fresh sweet hay, socializing with my dog-buddy Spot, and thoroughly enjoying my winter holiday; when Cataline paid me an unexpected visit.

Cataline is my pack train master. Together, we save people’s lives by delivering supplies to them. Believe me, they would starve without us. I know this, because Cataline tells me so every time he loads food onto my sturdy back.

I enjoy my job. I get to travel all over British Columbia, sometimes breaking new trails and opening up territory to gold miners and settlers. I get to meet a lot of nice animals, and sometimes even children. The children always seem to like me best; I suppose because I am small and pretty and I work so hard. Sometimes they feel sorry for me because my load looks so big and heavy on my back. Little do they know that Cataline always saves the light loads for me, like blankets, eggs, or dried beef and fish. None of the heavy-haul stuff like dry beans and rice for me.

I know Cataline is fond of me, and proud, because he bred me specially from his favourite stallion and prettiest donkey. My Papa is Guerrier - which means ‘the Warrior’ in English. He is small but strong. My Mama is Chérie, the French word for ‘dear one’. She is a lovely brown donkey that he loved as soon as he saw her, and brought her with him all the way from France. They have both retired to the pasture.

I have a brother and a sister, but I am the smallest and youngest. My name is Ici, which means ‘here’ in French. Most of the kids around here don’t know French though, and they think my name is ‘Easy’.

Humph. I lay my ears back and raise my hind foot when they call me ‘Easy’. I feel like kicking them sometimes! They don’t understand me at all.

But now, Cataline seems to want me to work today. He has a stranger with him, a tall fellow with a big white beard. "Ici, I need for you to be in parade tomorrow. I dress you up and harness you to sleigh." he says. "Dis gentleman, he drive you wit’ de reins."

The bearded guy speaks up. "Why do you call him Ici?"

My life changes forever with my master’s next words. "Ici mean ‘here’ in French. Every time I call le dog, saying ‘ici’, de mula come." he says. "So I call him Ici."

What?!! I am in shock. I am named because I come when a dog is called? My eyes go big, and my ears go back. I hang my head in humiliation, no longer able to look my master in the eye. Oh the shame, the indignity of it all. I bray loudly in frustration, not caring what that old white-beard thinks.

Cataline strokes and comforts me, but hasn’t a clue what has caused my distress. I am crushed. But my master, usually so perceptive to my every mood, does not seem to notice. He is too concerned with dressing me up!

He fastens around me a nice red wool blanket. This isn’t bad; it is actually warm and kind of comforting. He places harness on me, which is a tool of my trade. He puts a bridle and reins on, which I have taken before. Everything seems fine so far.

What’s this? Bells? He is attaching them to my harness. Hold it! The only animal that wears a bell is the White Bell Mare, who leads our pack train. What does this mean? Am I to lead? Where is Bella the Mare? She can’t be sick, I just saw her this morning and she smelled fine.

Now what?! He has branches in his hand. Wait, he is attaching them to my halter, and tying them on tight. Oh no, does he expect me to wear these things on my head? I won’t. I’ll shake them off! (shake, shake, shake) Oh, dear, they won’t come off. My master ties exasperatingly good knots.

Cataline reassures me, "De branches, dey are like antlers on de reindeer. You be good, Ici! You be reindeer inna parade. I give you treat after, eh?" I don’t understand his gibberish. What do they want from me? Help!

Old Hairy-white-face makes an astute observation. "I don’t think he wants to cooperate."

Cataline must have done his whiskey-in-the-hair thing (another story). "Oh, she cooperate!" Aah, he’s mixed up his pronouns again, and forgotten that I’m a boy.

My buddy Spot cowers in the corner, her eyes wildly urging submission. "Just do what he wants!" she yelps. My mulish nature rebels, and I try to holler "No, no!" but all that comes out is a loud "Ee-yaw! Ee-yaw"

"Easy, Ici." he growls. Oh-oh, he’s getting mad. I’ll be eating dry straw for the next month if I don’t buckle under. After a final kick at the post, I give up.

Cataline and his white-faced cohort lead me out to this sleigh-thing. The smell of the fresh green paint makes me snort and show my teeth. It is nearly as obnoxious as me.

After they have me backed into the rigging and have tightened everything up, my boss has another little chat with me. "Ici, you listen to Mr. Teague, do as he tell you. Tomorrow everybody call him ‘Santa’, mebbe shout and clap. You not be ‘fraid, OK?"

Oh, I’m not afraid; I’m cheesed right off. My ears are so far back they can see yesterday. Cataline gives ‘Santa’ a little whip to crack when he wants me to go.

Off we go down the lane, bells jingling, with Mr. Teague laughing, shouting, and chanting some strange words. The snow is fresh, but the hard-packed stuff is a little bumpy underneath. We do a few practice runs up the road and back to get him used to driving me; my responses are, of course, perfect.

Finally I can get back to my hay. Cataline has a last word with me about behaving tomorrow, as I nod my head and roll my eyes in true mulish fashion. When they are gone I am left alone with Spot to review the day’s events.

Spot really is my best friend out of all other dogs, mules, horses, and humans. No one believes that she is a purebred Border Collie - the smartest dog in the world - because she is skinny and has never had a bath. But what do you expect in a Gold Rush town like Yale? Some of those humans look and smell like they have never had a bath either. I’ll take Spot any day.

Spot ended up in Yale after her master’s canoe tipped above Hell’s Gate. She tried so hard to save him, but it was impossible. Now she is homeless and hungry, scrounging for food wherever she can, but at least she has a warm bed in my stall when she visits.

I love her because she is smart, witty and teaches me things. She saw my ordeal with the ‘antlers’ and sleigh, but like a true friend, she lets me tell her about it anyway.

When I’m done, she reflects on harness and being a pack animal, and then says, "You know, Ici, unless you’re the lead dog, the view is always the same."

I know what she means. If you’re not in the front of the lineup - or pack train in my case- then there is always someone’s rump right in front of you, and that is all you get to look at.

"So you see, being the one in front of the sleigh might actually be fun for you." I hate to admit it, but she may turn out to be right. "Spot, will you run beside me?" I ask. She looks flattered, grinning and wagging her bushy tail in agreement.

Morning arrives too soon, and I am proud to say that I’m much more cooperative today. The antlers and bells still feel strange to me though, and I’ll be so glad when this ordeal is over.

Mr. Teague is all dressed up in a funny-looking puffy red suit, with an even goofier red hat. I watch as he and Cataline load up the sleigh with boxes and small crates, all covered in newspaper or brown butcher’s wrapping, tied with string and decorated with colourful paper bows. They carefully place in a big heavy bag made of potato sacks, bulging with who knows what, but it smells interesting. ‘Santa’ Teague climbs in and hollers "HO HO HO!" which makes Cataline roar with laughter. Hah! It even makes me snicker a bit.

Pulling this sleigh is a nightmare closer to town. The road is full of frozen lumps and bumps from thousands of hoof prints, and this constant jingling is quite unnerving. Besides, it is a lot heavier than yesterday, loaded up with all that stuff. Oh well, Spot is trotting along beside me with encouragement, and my master is behind us on Soirée, his big black horse.

We pull up alongside the Hudson’s Bay Post, where a large crowd is gathered. Everyone is dressed up in some really crazy-looking costumes; I’ve never seen anything like it. The Tait people are wearing their best buckskin clothes, decorated in beads, buttons and feathers, and a few are carrying drums and sticks. Some of the people from Chinatown are there in brightly coloured outfits. Other townspeople are wearing things that I cannot even describe, except that they look as lively and gay as Santa back there. I am looking around at everything and that’s when I see her standing there. “Mama!” I bray loudly, but cannot move from my post.

My Mama greets me happily, but a fellow with long robes holds her tight. "I hope to see you after the parade!" she calls to me in Donkey language. Just now, it seems, a lineup is forming upon orders from one of the All Hallows nuns; Sister Amy Superior, I believe.

Suddenly I hear a god-awful wailing at the front of the column. My ears flicking in annoyance, I look questioningly at Spot. She grins doggy-style. "That, Ici, is a Scottish piper. That is a kilt he is wearing, and he is playing the bagpipes." The piper begins the parade, and rounds the corner to lead us down Front Street.

The Sappers march behind him in their sharp red coats and pillbox hats. They are Colonel Moody’s Royal Engineers, who built the roads, the church and all the other public buildings. Right behind them is Yale’s small police force, with the court clerk and bailiff. I know Judge Begbie already went home to Victoria for Christmas, because his horse said goodbye to me.

There goes my Mama; that robed man is leading her, but now she has a woman and baby on her back; the woman is also in robes, and I think that baby is a doll. I’ll find out later.

Right behind my Mama are the nuns and girls from All Hallows; they begin singing as they walk, and they are a lot easier on my ears than that bagpiper. After them go the residents of Chinatown, smiling and laughing.

The Tait people follow the Chinese, banging their sticks together, drumming and singing as they dance along the street, led by Chief Liquitum. Ahead of us walk the brightly clad folks with pointed caps who resemble the fellow in my sleigh. Finally we are next.

As we round the corner I see the whole of Front Street stretched out before us. On one side are the saloons, banks, stores and hotels. On the river bank a paddlewheeler is docked, with bright lanterns and colourful streamers all over her. So many people! The whole town of Yale must be out. They are lined up on both sides of the road, cheering and clapping at the procession before us.

Suddenly the closest children see us, and they scream in excitement. They are jumping up and down and waving, "Santa! Santa!" As we draw nearer Mr. Teague shouts, "On Dasher, on Dancer,..." a huge long list of names, and not a one that I know. "HO HO HO!" he hollers, and then pulls oranges out of his sack and tosses one to each child. We are the last ones in the parade, and all of the children follow after us, laughing and dancing in excitement. By the time we pass through Chinatown at the end of Front Street, and make the sharp turn to follow Douglas Street back up, nearly the entire town has joined the parade behind us.

At last we reach the church, and the flood of people continues on inside. Thankfully, I am allowed to drink at the water trough and enjoy munching some good hay from a small bin Cataline has put there. And Mama is there. I touch her soft little nose with mine, and we lovingly rub cheeks. Spot is there too, and I introduce her to my dam.

Suddenly I hear a tiny voice beside me. "Hello Mr. Reindeer." Off to my side is a little girl with pink cheeks and a red button of a nose. "I don’t know which one you are, but I want to give you a Christmas present." In her hand is a perfect shiny red apple. I take it as gently as I know how, avoiding those teensy fingers.

The apple is sumptuous and so juicy. What a treat! It is gone too soon, and I snuffle at her fingers just to get the last of the smell into my nose. "Oh, you want another. I’ll try to find you one!" she says, and runs back into the church.

In a flash she returns, and behind her are more children. Her two apples go to Mama and me and then the children crowd around offering sugar cubes and carrot sticks, and one even has candy! Happily, I nibble at several cubes, and then take one of the proffered carrots. As I am about to munch it down, I realize that Spot is sitting there staring politely at my greedy manners.

I courteously extend the carrot stick to her, and she delicately takes it from my lips. The children are delighted, and a little boy offers her a chunk of cake. Hungry as she is, she tries not to gulp it down, and her eyes and tail signal thanks to the boy. "Why, she’s starving!" exclaims the girl. "Doesn’t anyone else ever feed her?"

"She’s just a stray I’ve seen around town for months." Says one boy. "Yeah, she’s always digging in garbage heaps all over town!" observes another.

"Well, she’s still starving. Someone ought to feed her." The girl thinks hard for a moment, and then heads for the church again. "I’m going to ask Papa if I can keep her."

Spot looks at me with her big brown eyes. "It would be wonderful to have a home. I would always come to visit you though, Ici, even if I lived as far away as Hope or Spuzzum."

I squeeze my eyes at her with warmth and love. "I know. Even if you have a home you will make sure you are free to run and visit me. You are a true friend, and I treasure you."

The little girl races down the church steps at such a speed I am afraid that she will trip on her petticoats and break her neck. "He said yes!" she shouts. "My Papa said yes! I can keep her!"

I have never seen Spot so excited. Her front feet are dancing on the ground so hard they sound like the Tait drums, and her tail is causing a snow flurry. Her whole body is snaking around so fast that she shivers when trying to sit still as the little girl reaches her.

She kneels down in the snow to hug Spot. "You know what, puppy? You are coming home with me, so I can name you. You have lots of black spots, so I’m going to call you Spot!"

Everyone will live happily ever after, of course. Can I get rid of these darned antlers now?

This story is dedicated to the memory of Spot, a purebred Border Collie who passed away in November, 2000. Spot was a very smart dog that grew up with and protected Megan Hope, and she will be missed by all of us.

© Irene Bjerky

by Irene Bjerky

Hope Writers Guild