by Baxter Black
The steering wheel broke off in his hand, and the pickup stood on its nose. Wrenches, sockets, hammers, socks, pliers, shirts, underwear, screwdrivers, Levi’s, and a Handyman jack catapulted over his head, ricocheting off rocks and cactus for two hundred yards down range. The pickup teetered upright, then plopped back down on its belly. C.D. staggered out and started pickin’ hankies and T-shirts off the brush and diggin’ tools outta the dirt.
Suddenly, a shot whizzed by his ear, tearing a hole in the only overshoe he’d found. He looked over his shoulder to see his vehicle . . . burning! Another shot came from the flaming unit. It was then C.D. remembered the full box of .243 cartridges under the seat. He ran for the cover of a little arroyo. As the shooting continued like the Fourth of July, he poked his head up to survey the scene. Between himself and the melting truck, which was now sending billows of black smoke as far as Wagon Mound, were tattered pieces of dirty clothes draped on the native flora, like toilet paper in the neighbor’s tree.
An out-of-state car came down the highway and slowed. They peered out the window. C.D. stood up from behind his camouflage and waved a pair of jockey shorts. He shouted, “Help!” Unfortunately it was drowned out by the last .243 shell that exploded simultaneously.
The tourists calmly turned their heads, rolled up the windows, and drove on, no doubt unimpressed by their first alien cowboy sighting.
Winter can be tough on ranchers and farmers. They get up early anyway and have a lot of time to kill before the sun comes up. So, they get on the phone and bother people: feed salesmen, ag loan officers, county agents, neighbors, and, of course, their vet.
RANCHERS AND BUZZARDS
In the wintertime, ranchers and buzzards get up before daylight, put on the coffee, and wait for somethin’ to go wrong. One of the highlights of bein’ a cow country veterinarian is the predawn phone calls.
“DOC?”
my body is on autopilot. all nonessential functions are shut down. my brain feels like a heat-and-serve bag of frozen vegetables. the phone is cold on my ear.
“DOC, IS THAT YOU?”
witty retorts race through my mind: no, you have reached a nuclear submarine off the coast of Denmark.
“DOC, I BEEN THINKIN’ . . .”
quick, call ripley’s!
“REMEMBER THAT COW . . .”
certainly. i’m intimately acquainted with every one of my 40,000 bovine patients and can recall each one, even in this dense mental fog where my memory is now resting with a dead battery.
“THE ONE I TOLD YOU ABOUT AFTER THE STOCKMAN’S BARBECUE?”
also after 10 p.m., 11 whiskey sours, and a 30-minute cocktail conversation with mrs. holmes about her poodle’s habit of scooting across the living room rug.
“SHE’S NOT ACTING RIGHT.”
what? she voted republican? she didn’t clean up her room? she’s roosting in the trees with the guineas?
“I’VE BEEN WORRIED ABOUT HER SINCE YOU HAD TO TAKE HER CALF LAST SPRING. . . .”
right. too bad you didn’t worry more the three days before you called me out to work on her.
“SHE’S FAT, BUT I NOTICED SHE’S SLOW TO TRAVEL. I KIN BARELY KICK ’ER OUT OF A WALK.”
maybe she’s hard of hearing, or just senile. you’ve never culled a cow under the legal drinkin’ age.
“I WAS READING ’BOUT THIS SUPPLEMENT THEY FEED TO RACING GREYHOUNDS. SORTA HEATS UP.”
course, you could dip her tail in kerosene and light it. no rabbit within 20 miles would be safe.
“WONDER IF THAT WOULD WORK ON COWS?”
if it does, i might try some myself, long about the first of fall.
“PROB’LY NOT. BUT JUST THOUGHT I’D RUN IT BY YOU. WELP, IT’S SUNUP, DOC. ’PRECIATE THE VISIT. SEE YA.”
Rancher to his wife at breakfast: “I talked to Doc ’bout ol’ number twelve this mornin’. We agreed there’s nothing to worry about.”
Vet to his wife at breakfast: “I had the craziest dream this morning. But danged if I can remember it!”
Mr. Flynt was an old cowboy, horse trader, and grand character. Frank was his friend and a horseman in his own right. I had no idea Frank was such an eloquent writer. These are his own words.
FLYNT AND FRANK
Andy and I went down to Williston, Florida, to visit a couple of characters. That is horse country, and these boys were hock deep in horse training. They were sure hospitable as indicated in the letter they sent after we left. . . .
Dear Bax,
Flynt and I can’t tell you how much we enjoyed your visit. It was sure nice of y’all to take time to come visit, especially with that bad cold. Even though both kids caught it from you, so far only one has gone into pneumonia.
Flynt thought it was sure great that you castrated all of our colts while you were here. Although neither one of us had ever seen quite that much blood, at least we didn’t have to wonder what happened when we found eight of them dead the next morning. Flynt got real excited once I explained to him how much money we were saving by only having to feed two head instead of ten. Not only that, but the two that survived sure look like moneymakers once we get them over the tetanus.
Me and Flynt can’t thank you guys enough for letting us pick up every one of the bills down at the café. It never occurred to us to order steak for every meal. Thanks for the tip.
Remember when we were sitting in that bank president’s office and you were telling how all the smart bankers out West were calling in their unstable cow notes? Well, sir, you won’t believe this, but that banker thought that was such a good idea that he’s doing the exact same thing here. By not having any cows to feed or interest to pay, there’s no telling how much money we’ll save this year.
And Baxter, I don’t want you worrying about backing into the carport and knocking it down. In the first place, it’s hard to stop any type of vehicle going 55 mph in reverse, and secondly, as you remember, Beverly only had that one big gash over her eye when we lifted the roof off of her.
Flynt was just commenting the other day about how time sure did get away from us while you were here. All of a sudden we looked up and six weeks and five days had just whizzed by. We were sure sorry to see you go, but since our livestock was about depleted and a good portion of our standing structures leveled, I guess it was as good a time as any. Oh, by the way, the folks from the car rental place came by and picked up the Lincoln and were kind enough to set us up on a monthly payment plan until the $6,300 in mileage and damages were paid off.
As Always,
Flynt and Frank
Presentation is half the meal, which is good ’cause I can’t cook.
BEANS À LA BLACK— A RECIPE FOR TROUBLE
Speak to me of the humble bean,
Of Milagro, of Jack and the stalk.
Whose bold contribution has earned them a place
In the footnote of history’s crock.
Recognized by poets, painters, bards, and
the literary glitterati such as Shakespeare, who said,
“A bean by any other name would still . . .”
If a bean were consumed in the forest and no one
heard it, would it still make a sound?
One small bean for man, one giant bean burrito
for mankind. —ARMSTRONG
Gold, frankincense, and pinto beans.
I never met a bean I didn’t like. —LYNDON BEANS JOHNSON
A fool and his bean are soon parted. —ANONYMOUS
Quoth the raven, “Refried beans.” —POE
Hell hath no fury like a bean turned bad. —CONGREVE
Down through the ages, the humble bean has been treated as the blue-collar worker of the menu. The landscape on the plate, the flannel sheets for the plump weenie to lay its head. Always there, usually unnoticed like rice in China, cows in westerns, and duplicity in Congress. It has assumed the supporting role, never asking to carry the ball, ride Trigger, get the girl, or have a speaking part. Deferring always to the filet, fajita, or French
onion soup.
And, even though it is a famous food in its own right, it is a frijole fame . . . like owning the most expensive Ford Escort.
Thus, to rectify this culinary snobbery, I offer my recipe for Beans à la Black:
Purchase 1⁄2 pound dried pinto beans.
Select 22 blemish-free beans.
Boil till soft; discard one bean over left shoulder.
With needle and thread, string them like beads, interspersing with capers, raspberries, and pearl onions.
Garnish with chili powder and lime juice.
Tie the fondue necklace loosely around the throat of a loved one, allowing the center bean to dangle in the angle of Louis.
Dine, then relax and enjoy the postprandial 21-bean salute.
At the cocktail party, a person approaches the local M.D. and says, “I’ve got this pain. . . .” The veterinary equivalent is “I’ve got this horse [dog, cow, marmoset or . . . pain]. . . .”
FREE ADVICE
There is a strange phenomenon called Alternative Faith Advice Awareness, which I just made up but can be described as this basic rule of life: Free advice is better than advice you have to pay for.
Most people have a kind of natural resentment against people tellin’ ’em what to do. It hurts even more when they get in the position of havin’ to pay someone to tell ’em what to do!
It’s not like buyin’ groceries or garden rakes, where you pay your money and walk away with something in your hand. But when you buy advice, it’s a little harder to figger what it’s worth. Most “professional advice,” of course, is expensive.
High up on the list of professional advisers is the honorable lawyer. With the law, the common folks seem to be playin’ in a game where nobody knows the rules except the lawyers. So we discuss our legal problems with those people we really trust. Like, if you had an uncle who spent a little stretch in the county jail, you’d have a natural tendency to take his advice about the intricacies of the law. Him bein’ experienced and all. Only in desperation would you ask a lawyer and then you’d question his advice.
Now, if your neighbor is pretty handy and did all the wiring in the new room in his house before the fire, you’d see if you couldn’t get him to help you convert the 110 in the pump house to 220. Call an electrician contractor? You’re kidding!
When your cow won’t get up, your pig is covered with spots, and all the hair is fallin’ off the dog, who do you call? First, you call your wife’s uncle. He used to raise a few hogs before he moved into town fifteen years ago. You could check his advice against that of the feed salesman and the horseshoer. Of course, there’s old Dick who used to work for a vet and was pretty good at hittin’ veins. He worked at the track for a while and is full of advice.
When the chips are finally down and the vet’s out to the barn doin’ a C-section on the old milk cow, you show him that spot on the back of your neck. The doctor in town gave you some medicine to rub on it, but Grandma says it needs a mustard poultice. Your brother-in-law offered to lance it, and you just don’t know what to do. You sure value the vet’s opinion ’cause everybody knows they really know as much about that sort of thing as M.D.’s. That’s so, ain’t it?
There’s just somethin’ that goes against our grain ’bout payin’ for advice. I’m no different. After all, the way I keep up on the latest medical developments is by subscribin’ to the Reader’s Digest.
Even tolerant, kindhearted souls finally realize there is a point beyond which advantage of them should not be taken. Good for them.
DRAWING A LINE IN THE DIRT
Sometimes you’ve just got to draw a line in the dirt. Tolerance of bad behavior should only go so far. Like Sam, who, when asked to judge a Texas chili cook-off, disqualified a contestant from Milwaukee whose recipe called for noodles. “You’ve got to make a stand,” he said. “Goulash is good but it’s not chili.”
Jerry is a kindhearted musician. He often receives invitations to come and perform, many from friends who say, “We can’t pay you anything, but it will be good for your career.” One day, Jerry realized, Wait a minute . . . this is my career! He drew a line and doubled his income.
There are many hardworking parents who send their kids to college. Their children profess interest in meaningful fields of study like marine biology (tern cleaner), world peace coordination, or compassionate preschool psychotherapy. Tuition increases, bills mount, majors change, yet graduation remains a distant star.
Till finally one day, the twenty-five-year-old student finds he has been volunteered for the UN Peacekeeping Force stationed in Two Dot, Montana. A diploma is not required.
Then there were the two cowboys who threw paint on the protesters in front of the fur store.
Or the team of masked raiders who washed Don Imus’s, Howard Stern’s, and Chris Rock’s mouths out with soap.
Or the patient folklorist who responded to the question “I write cowboy poetry; can I tell you one?” by saying, “No, thank you. If you do I will fill your hat full of mashed potatoes and pull it down over your head so far, french fries will be coming out your . . . ears!”
How ’bout folks that sit down next to you, whip out their cell phone, dial, and say, “I’m at the airport,” and you can hear the caller on the other end say, “So what?” You can just be thankful they’re not calling you, or you could whip out a bottle of rudeness repellent and douse them down.
I was at the rodeo recently and saw a lady take matters into her own hands. She was sitting behind a cowboy wearing a big hat. She tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Young man, I cannot see around yer hat. Would you mind removing it.” He explained how it was improper for a cowboy to remove his hat at a rodeo except for the national anthem.
But she had made her point, so I just traded places with her.
Ah, the confidence of youth.
HOLLER TAIL
There she lay. Uncomfortable but chewing her cud. She hadn’t gotten up for a couple days. “Milk fever,” I confidently diagnosed to myself. Treated simply, and often miraculously, with intravenous calcium.
Uncle Leonard looked over at me, his nephew who had finally made it into veterinary college. “Whattaya think it is, Bax?”
“I suspect it is a case of hypocalcemia caused by a depletion of calcium as a direct result of recent heavy lactation,” I replied knowledgeably.
He looked at me like you’d look at a feebleminded dog who had just messed on the carpet.
“It’s holler tail, son.”
“Hollow tail?”
“Yup. Treat it with salt and ashes.” With that, he went to the house and returned with a bowl of furnace ashes and a Morton Salt box. He cut a gash on the underside of the cow’s tail with his pocketknife. The cow’s expression went from total boredom to immediate interest.
He sprinkled a few ashes in the incision. The cow cocked an ear. Then Uncle Leonard put a handful of salt in the wound and massaged it briskly. Bossie’s eyes popped open like she’d backed into the fender of a ’58 Cadillac!
The cow rose and staggered across the pasture.
Uncle Leonard did it all as calmly as a mother leopard teaches her clumsy, big-footed kittens how to kill a gazelle and eat its liver.
My feeble excuses faded on my lips. I stopped short of suggesting that had I bent him over the kitchen table, buffed his buns with an electric sander, and liberally sprinkled him with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt, he, too, might make an astonishing recovery.
The horror stories of young, mistake-prone veterinarians are legion. Mine are no different. Animals I had pronounced dead or beyond help lived for years afterward to haunt my practice. Others in obviously good health, the ones I scolded the owner for even calling me about, died before I got the bill made out.
I guess I should have known it wasn’t going to be easy my first day on the job. I walked into the vet shack on the feedlot. The cowboys were drinking coffee, warmin’ up. I had on my brand-new covies. They had a big V on the pocket, and thermometers and doodads
hung all over my body.
“I’m the new veterinarian, gentlemen. I expect we’ll have no problems getting along. I’ll teach you as best I can and be glad to answer any questions concerning veterinary medicine you should have. I look forward to working with you for the betterment of the cattle, the crew, and the company.”
It was quiet as hair fallin’ on an army blanket.
Eventually, crusty ol’ Bud got up and walked by me to the door. He turned, and said, “Kid, I was punchin’ cows ’fore you could drag a halter chain.”
Then, followed single file by the other tight-lipped cowboys, they left me standing in my glory.
SPARKLING CONVERSATION
In daily conversation, do you often find yourself groping for just the right phrase? Yer listener hangs politely, mouth agape in wild anticipation of some profound description. You say, “Yessir! That rain we got yesterday was as welcome as . . . welcome as . . .” After a long pause, you finish the sentence with that moldy old expression “. . . the flowers in May!” Wow!
Wouldn’t you feel better if you had thought of “welcome as the ace of spades in a hand of lo-ball poker!” or “welcome as nine yards of gravel in a muddy driveway!” We have developed several standard descriptions for “dumb as . . .”; “nervous as . . .”; “cold as . . .”; “sleepin’ like a . . .”; “happy as . . .”; and “crazy as. . . .” We can all fill in the blanks with assorted posts, churchgoers, well diggers, babies, clams, and loons. But if you really want to be known as a scintillating conversationalist, you need to come up with some phrases that are a little more offbeat:
“Hot as a seat cover on a Phoenix Fourth of July!”