Traditionally, Mad Jack named his successive mules by number. Isn’t it funny that I would remember Number Seven. Or, not funny, really, but somewhat amusing. I must’ve admired him, even back then.
Some don’t take kindly to proffered hardtack or carrots — and a kick in the hindquarters would be returned two-fold by some — but Mad Jack might’ve tried budging ol’ Number Seven with Russell Stover dark-chocolate raspberry creams now and then. It could not have hurt matters, at least.