Recently I read a story about how a mule, being used as a part of an outdoor Easter pageant by a church down in Decatur, got loose and ran through the city streets, chased by a bunch of guys dressed up like Roman soldiers.

According to one witness, a lady who had just returned home from vacation, the chase was quite a spectacle.

`I had just come home and was sitting at my computer," said the startled witness. "I looked up and there was a mule looking in my window."

Aside from the obvious comic nature of such an event, it got me to thinking about mules.

I have a long history with mules, dating back to my earliest childhood memories. I spent much of my pre-school years on my grandmother's farm in rural Madison County. The farm was a great place to be a kid. It was jam-packed with all kinds of critters to play with including chickens, pigs, a few turkeys, more cows than I could count, my dog Jack and two mules.

The mules were named Zeke and Zak and they were not the most amiable creatures in the barnyard. In fact, both of them were more likely to kick anyone who got too close as not. I remember my Uncle Harry getting nailed on more than one occasion and he would show us the bruises to prove it.

Zeke and Zak stand out in my mind for another reason. They were major characters in one of my earliest childhood traumas. Let me explain.

When I was around four-years-old I had a pet turkey. It wasn't a big turkey, just a fuzzy little baby. As I mentioned, I also had a dog named Jack who spent most of his time either snoozing under a tree or chasing the mules when he felt feisty.

On this particular day, Jack must have been bored because he killed and ate my pet turkey. I remember crying my eyes out over it and my grandmother trying to comfort me. While this was going on, Jack started to chase the mules and, working as a team, they stomped him to death.

Talk about your double-whammy. In the space of one morning, I lost my turkey and my dog. Now, according to a friend of mine who fancies himself as a psychologist, this trauma probably left a deep scar embedded in the deepest recesses of my mind. According to my buddy, he is surprised that I don't start hyperventilating every time I see even a picture of a mule.

Fact is, however, I don't have any lingering resentment or hostility at mules. If the truth be known, I kind of like them. If I look real close at a mule, I can see a marked resemblance to my Uncle Harry. Maybe that's why Zeke and Zak kicked him so often. I always liked my Uncle Harry and I guess that's why I like mules.

Most farmers in the know say that a mule is better than a horse. According to animal experts, mules are smarter than horses and less temperamental. Further, a mule will generally eat less than a horse and, because of their small, upright, boxy feet, have fewer hoof problems.

Besides, mules live longer. The average farm mule lives 18 years, as opposed to a 15-year life span for a horse. Statistics further show that mules incur lower veterinary expenses than a horse.

Yes, there is something special about a mule. Perhaps being a mule lover is an acquired taste. An acquaintance of mine who happens to love mules told me that he would always choose a mule over a horse.

"People don't notice a horse, unless it is something special, like a prize thoroughbred," said my friend. "But people will always notice a mule. In fact, I met my wife on a mule."

I didn't ask for the details of this story, but I suspect it was quite interesting.

So you see, mules are versatile animals with many uses. A guy can get on a mule and find a wife, or he can use it to go and star in a church Easter pageant.

It boggles the mind. Really.