Horseshoes, Cowsocks & Duckfeet

by Baxter Black

  Mick owned a gas station alongside Interstate 80 in Hershey, Nebraska. It was to supplement his “agricultural habit,” as he called his farming operation.

  One hot afternoon, a sporty vehicle with Massachusetts plates pulled in to gas up. The driver unwound himself from the bucket seat, stood on the gravel, and stretched. He let his gaze travel the full circumference of the horizon around him.

  “My gosh!” he said, somewhat overwhelmed, “what do you do out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “We jis’ scratch around in the dirt and try to get by,” answered Mick.

  “This is the most desolate place I’ve ever been! There’s nuthin’ here!”

  “Where ya goin’?” asked Mick.

  “San Francisco.”

  “On I-80?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well,” said Mick, “you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”

  Where, exactly, is “nuthin’ ”? According to Mick, it waited for this pilgrim on down the road. It is 638 miles from Hershey to Salt Lake City, the next city with smog on I-80.

  In contrast, I-95 runs 430 miles from Boston to Washington, D.C. In between, it passes through Providence, New York City, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, all of which are bigger than Salt Lake City.

  But after this poor traveler got his transfusion in Salt Lake, nuthin’ waited for him farther down the road. Picture 525 miles on I-80 west to Reno with nuthin’ but Nevada in between.

  Some folks say you might see nuthin’ on I-10 from Junction to El Paso, or nuthin’ on Hwy. 200 from Great Falls to Glendive, or nuthin’ on I-40 on from Flagstaff to Barstow, or Hwy. 20 from Boise to Bend, or nuthin’ on Hwy. 43 from Edmonton to Grande Prairie.

  In my ramblings, I’ve seen a lot of nuthin’. It appeals to me; breathin’ room, big sky. Matter of fact I’ve seen nuthin’ in busy places like south New Jersey, the Appalachian Trail, the Ozarks, the U.P., or outside Gallipolis. You gotta look a little harder, but it’s there. Nuthin’, that is.

  Mick sold the gas station, but he still lives in Hershey. He says it feels like home.

  Feels that way to me, too. There’s somethin’ about nuthin’ I like.

  Cowboy stories are strewn with wrecks. Horse wrecks, cow wrecks, financial wrecks, Rex Allen, and Tyrannoeohippus Rex. And although one could make them up, it’s not necessary. They are a daily occurrence.

  WHEN NATURE CALLS

  Russell asked me if I’d ever heard of a flyin’ mule. “You mean parachuting Democrats?” I asked.

  He and a neighbor had hired a couple of day work cowboys to help round up cows on the Black Range in southeastern Arizona. Billy, one of the cowboys, brought a young mule to “tune up” durin’ the weeklong gather. When they had ridden the saddled mule through the Willcox auction ring, he’d looked pretty good. But afterward when Billy went to load him, he got his first inkling that all was not as it appeared.

  The sale barn guys had the mule stretched out and lyin’ down between a post and a heel rope. “To take the saddle off,” they explained. “He’s fine once yer mounted, but you can’t get near him when yer on the ground!”

  First morning of the roundup, Billy managed to get Jughead saddled. He had to rope him and tie a foot up to get it done. Then they all sat around for two hours drinkin’ coffee till sunup.

  As they left the headquarters at daylight, Billy made arrangements to meet Russell at a visible landmark. With all that coffee he’d been drinkin’, he knew a “call of nature” was imminent and he’d need help gettin’ back on Jughead.

  Billy gathered a handful of critters but missed the landmark. By then his kidneys were floating.

  The country was rough and brushy. He spotted a ten-foot scraggly pine on the edge of a four-foot embankment. It gave Billy an idea. Not a good idea, but remember, he was desperate and he was a cowboy.

  He dropped his lasso around the saddle horn and rode up next to the tree. He passed the rope around the trunk and dallied onto the horn. The plan was to snug Jughead up close, get off, do his business, then remount.

  The plan went awry.

  Jughead started buckin’ around the tree on the long tether. He made two passes before Billy lost his dally. Brush and cactus, pine boughs, and colorful epithets filled the air! With each ever-tightening circle, the rope climbed higher up the trunk. The higher they climbed, the more time they spent airborne.

  Jughead was hoppin’ like a kangaroo when the treetop bent and the uppermost coils peeled off. Mule and cowboy were midair when they hit the end of the line. Jughead went down and Billy spilled into the arroyo.

  Almost on cue, Russell came crashin’ up outta the creek bottom, “Mount up, Billy. We need help!”

  Billy’s hat was down around his ears, and he looked like he’d bitten off the end of his nose.

  “Uh, go ahead and shake the dew off your lily,” said Russell generously. “I guess we’ve got time.”

  Billy labored to one knee. “Never mind,” he said, “I went in flight.”

  Some commentators just can’t leave well enough alone.

  ONLY EWES CAN PREVENT WILDFIRE

  We have long known the sheep to be a two-purpose animal: meat and wool. Now the Nevada Extension Service is finding another purpose: fire control.

  Practicing a technique successfully used in California and British Columbia, the Nevadans are using high-density, short-duration grazing to mow the fire-prone grass and sagebrush.

  Their motto is “Only ewes can prevent wildfire.”

  When I first heard about using sheep in fire control, I had a moment’s difficulty picturing the scene. Were they flying in low and dropping woolly beasts on hot spots? Were they fitting lambs with gas masks and shovels, then parachuting them into the forest? Or were sheep serving some useful function at the base camp? Waiting tables, perhaps nursing wounds, or simply offering comfort to the firefighters in the form of a shoulder or fleece to lean on?

  No! Of course not. The sheep simply eats everything in sight so that nothing is left to burn.

  Pretty clever, these Extension Service people. I understand they might apply for a grant to examine other alternative uses for sheep. I’ve come up with some possibilities they might test.

  Need a replacement for the waterbed? Sleep on a bed of sheep. When trail riding or camping, just bring three or four head along. They can reduce fire danger and you can count them at night.

  How about soundproofing? When a teenager pulls up beside you in traffic and his hi-fi–whale communicating car stereo is so loud it makes seismic waves in your 7-Eleven Styrofoam cup, you can immediately dial 922-BRING-A-EWE. An emergency crew will be dispatched to the scene and will stuff sheep inside the teen’s car until the sound is properly muffled.

  Or how ’bout a safety device in automobiles to replace the airbag? In the event of a crash, a Bag o’ Sheep explodes from the dash, absorbing the impact, then escapes out the broken windows.

  In a hurry at the airport, but don’t have time for a shine? Try the Basque Sheep Buffer. Two strong people from Boise drag a ewe over your boot toes, side to side. They glisten with lanolin, and in a hot dance hall when the grease starts steaming, no tellin’ what can happen.

  Other things come to mind: sheep as large drain stoppers, self-propelled sponges, or a place to store your extra Velcro.

  But the alternative use for sheep that may have the greatest potential: Q-tips for elephants.

  There are fourteen definitions derived from this story explained in the glossary of this book.

  COWBOY VOCABULARY MISCONCEPTIONS

  This piece has an agricultural-cowboy slant. However, I am aware that urban people (Gentiles, I call them) read it as well. So when I lapse into my “cowboy vocabulary,” I appreciate that some of my meanings could be unclear. Listed are some common misconceptions:

  Statement: “My whole flock has keds.”

  Misinterpretation: Sheep are now endorsing tennis shoes.

  Statement: “I’m looking to buy some replacement heifers, but I want on
ly polled cattle.”

  Misinterpretation: His cows are being interviewed by George Gallup.

  Statement: “I’m going to a gaited horse show.”

  Misinterpretation: A horse performance being held in an exclusive residential area.

  Statement: “I work in a hog confinement facility.”

  Misinterpretation: She teaches classes in the campus jail at University of Arkansas.

  Statement: “I prefer the Tarentaise over the Piedmontese.”

  Misinterpretation: He is picky about cheese.

  Statement: “They’ve had a lot of blowouts at the turkey farm this year.”

  Misinterpretation: Sounds like they better change tire dealers.

  Statement: “This mule is just a little owly.”

  Misinterpretation: His ears stick up? He’s wise beyond his species limitation? No, wait, he looks like Benjamin Franklin or Wilford Brimley?

  Statement: “Do you know where I could get a bosal, romal, and some tapaderas?”

  Misinterpretation: I’d suggest someplace that served Mexican food.

  Statement: “I heard that Speed Williams and Rich Skelton got one down in five flat.”

  Misinterpretation: Must be a couple of quick anesthesiologists.

  Statement: “I heard Texas has now gotten Brucellosis free.”

  Misinterpretation: I assume Bruce, who is of Greek origin, finally got a good lawyer.

  Statement: “The Beef Checkoff has gone up to a dollar.”

  Misinterpretation: Not a bad price for a Russian sandwich. I know the Veal Solzhenitsyn and the Chicken Zhivago are twice that much.

  Statement: “You don’t have to be a genius to see the team pulls to the left.”

  Misinterpretation: Whoever they are, they were not satisfied with the election results.

  Statement: “I believe that Debouillet has blue bag.”

  Misinterpretation: She’s taken to wearing French fashion accessories.

  Statement: “That horse won’t break out of a canter.”

  Misinterpretation: Then that’s what I’d keep him in. Beats tyin’ him to a post.

  Statement: “She’s wormed, fresh offa wheat grass, and showin’ a little ear.”

  Misinterpretation: A modest stripper on an organic diet has swallowed her chewing tobacco.

  Statement: “You can stick a fork in me.”

  Correct interpretation: He’s done.

  COW DISTURBER

  McGraw posed an interesting question. If a cowboy herds a herd of cattle, we call him a herder. If a sheepman herds a flock of sheep, he’s still a herder. Why isn’t he called a flocker?

  Oley has always referred to himself as a cow disturber. I think that is an accurate description of what cowboys do. The definition of disturb is “to annoy or disrupt.”

  “Where ya goin’, Bill?”

  “I’m gonna go check the cows.” Which really means “I’m gonna ride into the bunch, git ’em all up, turn ’em around, and just generally annoy and disrupt them.”

  I grant there are occasions when we have a certain definite task in mind, e.g., “I’m gonna bring in that cow with the arrow in her side.” Or, “Saddle up, we’re pushin’ twenty-six hundred head of longhorns to the sale barn in Bloomfield.”

  But most of the time, we’re just disturbing them. Like doting parents or cat fanciers, we take any excuse to fuss over the critters in our care. It’s a wonder whitetail deer or jackrabbits aren’t extinct with no one to molest them regularly.

  If we were honest with ourselves, our language would be more forthright.

  The cattle foreman in the feedlot might give his instructions like this: “Jason, I want you to enter the first pen in the north alley. Unsettle the steers by sitting quietly for a moment. Next, upset them by approaching. Confuse them by weaving back and forth, agitating and irritating them constantly. Badger each one until they’ve all gotten up and milled around. Once you’re convinced you’ve stirred them up sufficiently, you may go disturb the next pen.”

  Or, the cowman might say to his wife, “Darlin’, while I’m at the board meeting, I’d like you to torment the heifer in the barn lot every twenty minutes. She’s tryin’ to calve. Peek over the fence and bother her. Shine the light in her eyes to break her concentration. Worry her as often as needed, and when I get back, I’ll slip in and frighten her into calving.”

  In fairness, we are doing what all good shepherds do. We watch over our flocks because that is our calling. We stand guard in case any should need our help. But if truth-in-labeling is ever applied to our job descriptions, we will have to be more specific about what we do.

  So the next time somebody asks what you do, try one of these on for size: herd rearranger, bull nudger, sheep panicker, mule cusser, equine perplexer, steer beautician, hog motivator, holstein therapist, cow companion, dog shouter, or cowboy coddler.

  HORSE PEOPLE

  I would like to talk to you about a certain kind of person that ranks in my mind with duck hunters. Now, don’t get your gander up. I’m not gonna say anything about duck hunters. After all, what can you say about someone who gets up in the middle of the night, in the middle of the winter, then goes out and stands in water all day, up to his buckle, and then . . . shoots a duck. But I’m not talkin’ about duck hunters, no . . . the kinda people I’m talkin’ about are horse people.

  Yes, you may have one in your family. You know it when you sit down at the table with a horse person because the first thing they start talkin’ about is horses. On and on and on. And if there’s two of ’em, you might as well get up and leave ’cause you aren’t gonna get a word in edgewise.

  And cowboys are the worst. You can be drivin’ down the road, three of you in the front seat of the pickup, and you’ll pass by this big ol’ meadow. In it there’ll be fifty-two sorrel geldings, each with one stockin’ leg and a snip right on the end of his nose. The guy sittin’ in the middle will point and say, “See that one seventeenth from the left, I broke him in 1993.” How do you argue with somebody like that?

  Or you go out to somebody’s place, and they say, “Doc, it’s good to see ya! I just got a brand-new horse! I know you’ll wanna look at him.” See, they think because you’re a veterinarian, that you care. Which of course I do!

  Well, I have a confession to make: I have come to realize over the years that I have been a horse person all along. I sat there observing, just like you’re reading these words, the obsession of horse people with their beast, and I said, “Yes, I know people like that!” never realizing that I, too, was afflicted.

  It all came into focus one cruel winter evening: freezing temperatures, 20 mph winds, and snowing hard. Our company had just arrived. I had recently acquired a spectacular King Ranch gelding. I mean, the brand alone was worth a hundred bucks!

  In my excitement I offered, “Listen, I’ve got a really dandy new horse. He’s as shiny as a new Dodge dually, smooth as silk pajamas on a snake, light as feathers on angel food cake, and will eat truffles outta your hand. How’d you like to slip out to the corral and have a look?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my wife display an arched eyebrow . . . a sign of warning. Not unlike the one you see on a teamster’s face when he’s about to take the bullwhip to a wayward ox. You’ve often seen it in Hillary’s eyes.

  She calmly said, “Honey, it’s twenty below outside. The drifts are six feet deep between here and the barn, not to mention the fact that your mother is eighty years old. . . .”

  The sport of team roping is the cowboy’s equivalent of golf. Arenas are scattered across the country like golf courses and many cowboys belong to a weekly roping club. If you have trouble picturing the technicalities of this wreck, it is enough to know that the lasso never comes tight around Kevin’s boot.

  A FAVOR

  Have you ever had a simple gesture of kindness end up unappreciated?

  James and Kevin were entered in the team roping and had just chased a steer to the end of the arena in a fruitless attempt to
head and heel the crafty critter. James had lost his hat during their run, so Kevin stopped to pick it up for his header.

  He hung his loop and coils over the horn and swung off. Well, not quite off. As his right boot cleared the cantle, it hooked the loop!

  Kevin remembered very distinctly seeing the rope around his ankle as he neared the ground. He kicked, meaning to shed the snare, but instead, he stuck his toe into Buck’s flank!

  In that split second, he thought, It’s a good thing I’m on ol’ Buck. A less seasoned horse would spook. Buck, of course, was thinkin’, Whoa! What was that?! He spooked and was goin’ flat out in three jumps!

  Down the arena they went! Kevin did a couple of half gainers and managed to put a nice figure eight between his boot and the saddle horn!

  He sat like a man on a sled tryin’ to prise the loop off his foot as he bounced along on his pockets, feet in the air, hands on the rope, leaving a trail through the arena dirt like someone draggin’ a sack of watermelons down a sand dune!

  Ten feet behind the flashing hooves, Kevin peered through the flying dirt. They were fast approaching the awestruck ropers at the chute end of the arena!

  In desperation, Kevin lay flat on his back and kicked at the captured boot! The loop came loose, his heels bit into the dirt in full flight! They stuck and he stood straight up like Wile E. Coyote runnin’ into a canyon wall! With a dramatic flair, he tipped his hat.

  James rode by the rigid, unrecognizable figure covered with dirt from his hair to his spurs. “Nice ride,” he commented. “Least you could have done was pick up my hat.”

  Although I wrote this as a silly spoof, there are those who offer animal “psychiatric” services. They have done their schooling in the trenches of telemarketing or carnival barking and have moved on. They are acutely aware that most times it is not the patient who needs counseling but rather the owner. Nil explota barboocado. . . . No harm done.

  COW PSYCHOLOGIST

  “Doc, I’ve got a heifer that just had a calf. She’s not accepting it very well. Can I bring her in for psychological counseling?”