Animals Don't Blush

by David R Gross

  “That’s great, Kathy. Thanks. I’ll have Rosalie give you a call. I really appreciate the invitation.”

  I made the rounds, shaking hands and saying goodbye to the three men and Ferdie. I tried to give Jenny a kiss on the cheek, but she ran and hid behind her mother. I thanked Kathy for breakfast, lunch, and the invitation for Sunday dinner.

  ***

  Remembering these events after fifty years, I marvel at the apparent cruelty and disregard we displayed for the horses. However, at that time, anesthetic agents available for use in horses were limited. We had local anesthetics, not an option for use in these wild animals. The tranquilizers had little or no effect on excited animals, unlike some of the agents available today. We also had succinylcholine chloride, a muscle-paralyzing agent that would immobilize a horse for a short time but could also cause paralysis of the respiratory muscles. Succinylcholine left the animal conscious, able to perceive pain but paralyzed. Finally, we had an intravenous general anesthetic combination of chloral hydrate, pentobarbital, and magnesium chloride, called Equithesin. It was difficult to dose, especially in excited animals, and potentially lethal. It left the animals anesthetized and immobilized, so in this case they would have been lying in a thick layer of dirt and manure, for a couple of hours or more.

  Despite the fictionalized and romanticized tales of feral horses running free through the West, these horses led a difficult life. There are few natural predators of wild horses, so the number of animals tends to multiply rather quickly. This results in overgrazing and the threat of starvation. Because about half of the foals born are males, competition and fighting amongst the adult males results in a high rate of injuries. These injuries go untreated and can lead to death or permanent lameness. In addition, these wild horses were exposed to bad weather, drought, starvation, high parasite loads, and other dangers that made life unpleasant. Compare this to a life of good care provided by humans who have a stake in keeping the animals healthy and working productively or just functioning as pets.

  Chapter 6: The Joneses’ Ranch

  Rosalie balanced a wicker basket on the floor of the passenger seat between her feet, safe from Mister. The basket was full of chocolate cupcakes slathered with a thick layer of chocolate frosting.

  The sun hung directly overhead, fierce in the cloudless sky. We crossed the Yellowstone River ascending out of the valley onto the plateau. Hot wind blew in through open windows. The North Dakota Badlands, sparsely covered with prairie grasses, buffeted by winds, and slashed by deep coulees, presented grotesque, twisted formations of sandstone and clay, carved by wind and water. The whole was a monotonous gray-brown, occasionally interrupted by bands of dirty yellow and vermilion. In early spring, the Badlands are briefly green, but it was summer, and those bits of prairie grass that managed to find a plot of soil sufficiently fertile to support life were brown and brittle.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted a chicken hawk circling close to the life-giving water of the Yellowstone. The Ford was kicking up a thick rooster tail of dust. The air in the car was thick, but it was too hot to roll up the windows.

  We arrived at the Joneses’ mailbox.

  “How do they manage to live in this much isolation?” Rosalie asked. “We haven’t seen a sign of humans for the last fifteen minutes.”

  I didn’t answer. Concentrating on driving, I kept the right-side wheels of the low-slung Ford precariously balanced on the mound between the two deep ruts constituting the road into the ranch. The left-side wheels made a new path. If I let the car fall into the deep ruts, I would loose an oil pan or worse.

  Rosalie let out a gasp, and I slammed on the brakes. We were on the crest of the hill, the Joneses’ place spread out before us.

  “What?”

  “Oh, Dave,” she sighed, “it’s so poor looking.”

  The track ended in an acre of dirt yard. To the right, the dilapidated barn struggled to maintain an upright position, a sturdy-looking corral on the north wall of the barn seeming to hold it up. A windmill and stock tank were north of the corral. To the west, insolently weather-beaten but standing proud and stark against the massive horizon, was the two-story frame house. Small sections of tenacious white paint clung to petrified siding. There were no trees. Brown prairie grass spread west and north. Parked in front of the open barn door, the driver’s side door ajar, was John’s Chevy pickup.

  “Well, they don’t have much in the way of material things, but I think you’ll find them pretty rich otherwise,” I said.

  I eased the car down the hill into the yard. Kathy and Jenny came down the steps from the house, their blond hair pulled back in identical ponytails. Ferdie raced around the corner of the house. Skipper, eyes focused, herded him.

  “Look at Skipper running. Looks like she’s doing very well after her ordeal,” I observed.

  Rosalie patted me on the arm. “Don’t get the big head; you got lucky.”

  Bent over in the doorway to the barn, John held the left hind leg of his bay gelding between his knees. He had a mouth full of horseshoe nails and held a horseshoe hammer in his right hand. He smiled around the nails and waved the hammer as I got out of the car and went around to open the door for Rosalie.

  Kathy, the kids, and Skipper all came to the passenger side of the car. When I opened the door, Mister forced his way out before Rosalie could move.

  The two dogs performed the requisite sniffing of each other’s sites of identification, Mister circling stiffly, ears pointed forward, Skipper making quick, jerky movements. They circled each other three times, noses buried, then Skipper rushed off with Mister following, determined to keep her close.

  “Honey, this is Kathy, and these two are Ferdie and Jenny. Kathy, this is Rosalie.”

  John finished with the horseshoe, dropped the horse’s leg, and came over to the car.

  “And this is John,” I said.

  Rosalie extended her hand. The rancher took it, pulled her in close, and gave her a hug.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Please feel you are with family here. That’s quite the dog you folks have. Biggest shepherd I’ve seen. Looks like he and Skipper have hit it off. How’s he act around cows? Maybe we’ve found a sire for Skipper’s first litter,” John said.

  “Don’t know, John. He doesn’t chase livestock, and he listens to commands, but I’ve never tried to work cattle or sheep with him. He’s got the genes for it, though,” I answered.

  “Here, Kathy, the basket is a present for you to keep; the goodies are dessert,” Rosalie interrupted.

  “Oh, that’s very nice Rosalie; you didn’t have to do that. We just wanted to get to know you. Let’s go up to the house. I best rescue my green beans; they should be boiling by now. Come along, Jenny.”

  Ferdie and I joined John in the open doorway of the barn. He finished rasping the nails on the hoof he was working on and then reset the shoe on the right hind hoof.

  “I haven’t heard anything about a break in the weather or rain,” I said.

  “Haven’t had a drop out here for four weeks now,” John replied.

  “I have heard of a couple of people in the market for good saddle horses.”

  “Now that’s good news,” John said. “We plan to break and train the whole bunch, then sell them. By the way, does Rosalie ride?”

  “We went riding once. She managed.”

  “We’ve got an old mare; she’s rock-solid gentle. Ferdie and Jenny both learned to ride on her. I need to go by the Simpsons’ this afternoon; they’re off rodeoing. We moved all the mustangs to a pasture on Ed’s place. Thought you might want to see how they’re doing. If Rosalie is up to it, we could all ride over,” John said.

  Before going to the house, we stopped at the water tank. John yanked the rope releasing the rudder on the windmill, allowing it to swing into the breeze. The windmill turned, and after a few moments, water ran out of the galvanized pipe into the stock tank. John rinsed off his hands drying them on the back of his shirt.

  I played
with the ropes controlling the rudder of the windmill.

  “Here, Doc. You disconnect the rudder with this one.”

  The windmill swung free, luffing, and stopped turning. Water stopped running out of the pipe.

  “Ingenious,” I said.

  “Yeah... technology from the eighteen hundreds,” John replied.

  The three of us crossed the hundred yards to the house and entered the enclosed back porch. Winter coats and coveralls hung on nails pounded into the rough-cut, full-thickness two-by-fours framing the house. Against the inside wall, there was a bench, three feet tall and two feet wide, running the length of the room. It held two plastic dishpans, an enamel wash pan, and two galvanized buckets, the later full of dusty water. Three limp but clean towels hung from wood pegs over the bench.

  An assortment of boots sprawled under the bench, Rosalie’s new boots amongst them. John sat on the bench, removed his boots, kicking them in with the others. When he got up, I did the same, thankful my socks didn’t have holes. Ferdie pried off his boots with his feet while still standing, then kicked them to the side, aimed in the general vicinity of the bench.

  A square, pine wood table standing on worn, flower-patterned linoleum occupied the center of the kitchen. Kathy stood at the stove stirring something. Rosalie sat on a wood kitchen chair, Jenny on her lap, her chin resting on the top of the little girl’s head, her arms wrapped around her. All three talked, simultaneously.

  “Three women, everybody talking, nobody listening, it’s déjà vu.” I turned to John. “Whenever Rosalie, her mom, and grandma get together, it’s the same scene.”

  John walked over, lifted Kathy’s ponytail, kissed the back of her neck, and went to the propane refrigerator. “You ready for a beer?”

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s barely past noon, but yeah, why not?”

  “Miss Rosalie, how ’bout you? Kath?”

  Rosalie raised a class of iced tea. “I’m good. Thanks anyhow, John.”

  Kathy raised her glass. “I’m set too, hon.”

  Ferdie squatted, checking out the cupcakes inside the wicker basket sitting on the floor next to the table.

  “Come on Doc,” said John. “We’ll let the ladies be.”

  We walked through a windowless dining room, filled by a battered but lovingly polished mahogany table and six matching chairs. A pot-bellied stove with a scuttle of coal next to it was tucked into the opposite corner of the adjoining living room. A worn, leather sofa sat under a window, a matching chair next to it. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sagging with books, lined all available wall space.

  John plopped into the chair. One section of books drew my attention. I noticed DeVoto’s Across the Wide Missouri and a battered edition of Larpenteur’s Forty Years a Fur Trader on the Upper Missouri. I picked up a book I didn’t recognize, Donald Jackson’s Voyages of the Steamboat Yellow Stone and then replaced it when I spotted a set of leather-covered books in a wood-and-glass case.

  I shook my head. “John, I can’t believe you’ve got the Biddle-Coues journals. Are these a first edition?”

  “Yeah, they are, Doc. You are welcome to borrow the Jackson book, but if you want to read any of the Biddle-Coues, you’ll have to take the time to visit them here.”

  “How did you manage to accumulate this library?” I asked.

  “We all do a lot of reading, especially in the winter, and the Simpson brothers carry a list for me. They haunt used bookstores when they’re rodeoing. Ted says it keeps them out of the bars.”

  “John, this is fantastic! How did you get interested in mountain man history?”

  “I’m related to Reuben Field on my mother’s side. He was my great-great-great-,” he counted them off on his fingers, “grandfather. I’m the sixth generation.

  “After they returned with Lewis and Clark, Reuben and his brother each collected five dollars a month in back pay and received land warrants for 320 acres. The brothers cashed in the land warrants in 1822 and settled adjoining plots of land in Missouri. My grandfather married a Field girl and moved his family to this homestead in 1897. I’m the third generation on this place.”

  ***

  In the kitchen, the women continued their conversation with Jenny mostly just listening.

  “So, were you raised on a ranch?” Rosalie asked.

  “Oh no, I’m a town girl, but John and I started dating in high school. Got married the week after we graduated, kind of a rush job.” She winked at Rosalie.

  “John’s been working this place pretty much by himself since he was sixteen. His dad was sick for a long time before he died from cancer five years ago. His mom died when he was still in grade school. How about you and Doc? It appears to me you haven’t been married very long—he still opens the car door for you.”

  Jenny squirmed, turning to look up at Rosalie.

  “I’m an only child too. We’ve been married a little over three months,” Rosalie answered.

  “Did you have a big wedding? John and I got married by a JP with just his dad, my folks, and a few friends.”

  “Ours was small too. Dave flew home to Phoenix from Denver on a Friday. We got married that Saturday night. It was just both of our parents, Dave’s brother and sister, his grandfather, his grandfather’s brother and his wife,” Rosalie answered. “Dave’s parents have a little Chihuahua, and his grandfather has a Chihuahua mix. We locked them in the kitchen, and those two little dogs barked the whole time trying to get into the living room with us. We flew back to Denver the next day, and Dave was back in the teaching hospital Monday.

  “A rabbi married us. That’s an interesting story. He insisted that we come in for counseling before he would marry us. We did that when Dave was home over the winter break. The only thing I remember that he said that was worthwhile was that we should never go to bed angry. We should talk things out before going to sleep. Well, we recently found out he left his wife and ran off with his secretary. Not something you expect from a rabbi.”

  At that point, John, Ferdie, and I came into the kitchen to see how things were progressing.

  Rosalie pulled me close and whispered into my ear.

  I smiled, nodded, and in a stage whisper, replied, “It’s out back.”

  Rosalie’s mouth dropped open.

  I took her hand. “I’ll show you,” I said.

  I took Rosalie around the house and showed her a shaky-looking shed with a crescent-shaped hole cut into the door. She put on her determined face.

  When we returned, Kathy was covering the dining room table with a white tablecloth. Next, she put down an eclectic assortment of dish patterns and silverware and then tested Rosalie.

  “This is Henrietta,” she announced. She was holding a roasted chicken on a platter. “She stopped laying. I rubbed a mixture of fresh butter with wild sage, tarragon, and salt under and onto her skin.”

  “OK,” Rosalie smiled, “I’m anxious to taste Henrietta. Do you grow your own herbs?”

  Kathy laughed, put down the platter, and patted my bride on the arm. “Rosalie, you are going to fit in just fine with this outfit. I was just trying to find out how much of a city girl you are. I’ll show you my garden after dinner.”

  There was a huge bowl of mashed potatoes, plus a casserole made with sweet potatoes, brown sugar, and black walnuts. Kathy had also prepared fresh green beans, lightly sautéed in butter, herbs, and wild onion. Her dessert was a fantastic black walnut pie. Ferdie and Jenny opted for the chocolate cupcakes.

  ***

  John picked up a dented galvanized bucket, put a scoop of grain in it, and stood at the open corral gate shaking the bucket. Three horses picked up their heads and trotted towards the corral. Five others walked in, the dun mustang at the end of the line. Once all the horses were in the corral, John emptied the bucket into a long feed trough, spreading the grain out. While the horses munched the grain, I closed the gate.

  John walked up to an old mare that didn’t move as he slipped a rope over her head. “Sally here will do fo
r Rosalie. You can use that saddle and bridle,” he pointed, “on my bay in the stall. I’ll be taking the dun outside the corral for the first time. We’ll see how he does.”

  Ferdie put a halter on one of the other horses and then looped the halter rope around the neck of his sister’s pony leading them both into the barn. Kathy caught her sorrel gelding.

  I saddled the bay and stood in the open doorway between the corral and the barn watching John shake out his throw rope, build a loop, and flip a hoolihan. When the loop settled around the dun’s neck, he froze and then turned to face John. The rancher worked his way up the rope talking softly. He then walked all around the horse rubbing him with the rope, petting him with both hands, and talking in a soothing voice. John led him into the barn and groomed him with a stiff brush. When he put on the saddle blanket, the dun flinched, but when he cinched the heavy saddle, the horse stood still. Finally, John slipped a hackamore over the dun’s ears. He checked on everyone and took a final tug on Sally’s cinch.

  “OK, group, we’re ready to go,” John announced. “Rosalie, hold onto the saddle horn with your left hand and the pommel of the saddle, here, with your right hand. Now raise your left foot back. I’m going to lift on your left instep while you pull yourself up with both hands and throw your right leg over. Good!”

  Sally stood as still as a courthouse statue, understanding that her job was to make certain Rosalie stayed on her back.

  Rosalie patted the mare on the neck. “She’s beautiful, John.”

  Sally turned her head and looked at Rosalie, acknowledging the compliment.

  I mounted the bay, and John, Kathy, and both children mounted their horses. The dun pranced, threw his head from side to side, and gave a couple of half-hearted bucks. The six of us were off, Skipper and Mister trailing as we rode through two pastures and then down into a tree-clogged ravine.