Horseshoes, Cowsocks & Duckfeet

by Baxter Black

  “Flat as an armadillo on a Texas highway!”

  “Nervous as Jell-O on a vibratin’ bed!”

  “It was so cold, I saw two coyotes tryin’ to start

  a jackrabbit with jumper cables!”

  “It was so hot, I saw a dog chasin’ a cat and they

  were both walkin’!”

  “It was so dry down home, we had to pin on our

  postage stamps!”

  “Popular as a pink Cadillac salesman at a

  Mary Kay convention!”

  “Safe as a side of bacon at a bar mitzvah!”

  “Happy as a cattlefeeder with an optimistic broker!”

  “Handy as a zipper on a banana!”

  Sometimes descriptive phrases can have a less than flattering connotation:

  “Handy as a pocket in yer underwear!”

  One of my employers said that havin’ me help was

  like havin’ two good men . . . not show up!

  “Cute as a cancer-eye cow!”

  “He worships the people she walks on!”

  “The committee had all the wisdom and insight

  of a band of Suffolk bucks!”

  “Tasty as hair in the gravy!”

  When two unlikable people find each other and

  get married, it only demonstrates that “one good

  dog deserves another!”

  “He needs another car like a tumbleweed needs

  a telephone, like a frog needs an earring, or like

  a cowboy needs a checking account!”

  These meetings are a regular part of life in the agricultural community. It is a way of presenting the latest innovations in animal health or crop production to the ranchers and farmers—producers, if you will. I have personally participated in many before I became a former large animal veterinarian.

  THE PRODUCER MEETING

  When you take a seat in the waiting room of a veterinary clinic, a feedlot office, or an animal health store, you occasionally notice people sitting there who look out of place. They are often dressed in a more formal attire than most clientele. They may be doing their “times” (“two times two is four, two times four is eight, etc. . . .”); they may be reading the ten-year-old copies of Look magazine; or they could be annoying you . . . just killing time.

  These dedicated individuals, who seem to take precedence over no one in the animal health food chain, are company reps. Salesmen armed to the teeth with research trials that support their product, special offers to entice volume buying out of season, and lunch money. They are the mainstays of our continuing education.

  They seem to exude a certain tension, which is understandable: They have the job security of a smoke jumper.

  A big part of their regular duties is producer meetings. Some of these meetings go well. Others . . . well, others prove that masochism builds character.

  John works for an international pharmaceutical company that offers products for use in livestock. He arranged with the manager of a good-sized feedlot to put on a meeting for the cowboys and vet crew employed therein.

  A local steak house was selected as an appropriate location for the meeting. Supper and drinks were furnished as bait. A good crowd of eighteen or twenty showed up for the meeting.

  No separate room was available, but the mâitre d’ had set up a single long table that ran the length of the room, wall to wall down the center of the dining area. John set his movie screen against the back wall at the end of the table. The slide projector sat in the middle of the table between the two rows of attentive cowboys.

  John began his presentation. He started with lung diseases. Pictures of fulminating pleuritis glared from the screen, attracting the attention of random diners. Presently, an incidental customer walked between the projector and screen, excusing himself politely as his shadow darted across a rather explicit slide of chronic suppurative pneumonia. As John was soon to discover, he lay in the direct and only path to the rest rooms.

  The wayfarer returned, tripping over the projector cord, which gave everyone a moment’s respite from pulmonary contagion.

  Just as John segued into injection site abscesses, he was interrupted by the waitress, who stepped into the spotlight, and asked, “Who ordered the scotch and water?”

  Then, in the midst of his discussion on rumen physiology, a group from the other side of the room broke into song. It was “Happy Anniversary to You,” dedicated to a couple celebrating fifty-eight years of wedded bliss: “Happy anniversary . . .” “. . . methane . . .” “. . . to yo-o-o-o-u-u-u. . . .” “. . . is released along with . . .” “Yeah, yeah, applause. . . .” “Scuse me, I gotta go to the john. . . .” “Sure, . . . carbon dioxide. Any questions?” “Yes, who ordered the two whiskey sours and the Bud Light?”

  On the drive home, John commented to his boss, “All in all, it wasn’t too bad a meeting.”

  “Yeah,” the boss said, “but ya know, they might’ve missed some of the details.”

  I spent my life living where the work was. Now I live in a community that my wife and I chose. It’s kinda nice.

  MY KINDA TOWN

  How to describe my kinda town . . .

  It has no restaurant called Le Sans Souci.

  The local environmentalists are both ranchers.

  You give your phone number by using only the last four digits.

  Gas is at least ten cents higher than that in the nearest town with a Wal-Mart.

  The paper comes out once a week, and high school students sit at the post office and sell it on Wednesday mornings.

  You can see clear out of town both directions from the one stoplight.

  Soccer (T-ball, girls’ basketball, etc.) moms control the social activities of the community.

  The local radio station operates at fifty watts, covers five square miles, and has a real disc jockey.

  The feed store, the barber shop, and the coffee shop act as the disseminators of early breaking local news.

  You are noticed and missed when you don’t make it to church.

  The mayor and city officials control the real estate in town, but they are kept in line by local watchdogs who contribute a steady stream of letters to the editor regarding fishy political activities.

  Both video stores are closed on Sunday.

  The grand marshal for the fabulous Butterfield Days Parade can shoe a horse and weld.

  One-stop shopping is available at the Vitamins— Furniture & Gospel store.

  The FFA is bigger than the football team.

  Everyone has at least one neighbor who is a member of the volunteer fire department.

  Kindergarten through twelfth grade are all at the same school.

  You can still get two scoops of ice cream for $1.50, credit at the lumber store, and a tractor tire fixed.

  On the official city seal is a cow, a locomotive, and a box of dynamite.

  And in my kinda town, people are just as busy, just as smart, and just as good-hearted as folks who live in towns big enough to have a restaurant called Le Sans Souci.

  According to my calculations, my town would have to triple in size before Wal-Mart would consider building here. We’re safe for a while.

  SMALLVILLE GROWING PAINS

  Letter to editor of Smallville paper:

  “. . . Smallville needs more food stores, drug and hardware stores. How come only Safeway is in Smallville? No competition. Smallville doesn’t change. Gas prices stay high. The few stores that are there charge too high of prices. They don’t care. That is why we shop in Metropolis, sixty miles away. At least there is competition. When will the people of Smallville ever learn? Sir, when my subscription runs out, no more renewals.”

  L.D., Smallville

  Therein lies the dilemma of Smallville, and Smallvilles all across the country.

  If we were to ask Mr. L.D. why he lives in Smallville, he might answer, “Less pollution, less crime, no traffic jams, local school control, better view, more peaceful atmosphere, friendlier people, . . . it
’s easier to be a big fish.”

  Supply and demand is a basic rule of economics. It is also safe to say that big-time supermarkets, hardware stores, discount warehouses, movie theaters, fast-food chains, and pharmacies have studied and are aware of every Smallville from sea to shining sea. Their research staffs know to the nearest gnat’s eyebrow the population base and buying power of each community. And when the time is right they will strike. And when they do, they will replace and eliminate those businesses presently supplying the needs of Smallville folks. To the point that they are the only places in town to shop. Then they will raise their prices until demand stimulates even bigger competition. On and on and on.

  The only way to please Mr. L.D. is for Smallville to become more like Metropolis. To grow until he himself becomes an anonymous fish in a crowded sea of goods and services. Then he will begin complaining about the congestion, the crime, the pollution, the long lines, and the fact that no one listens to him anymore.

  So he will move to another Smallville where life is at a slower pace, he can still get served coffee by a real waitress, have a charge account at the hardware store, where the barber knows his name, and the local paper will print his letters to the editor.

  For those of us who live in Smallville, there’s a little Mr. L.D. in each of us. We should be careful what we wish for.

  In the cowboy world, there is a stigma to wrangling dudes. It’s the equivalent of professional wrestlers in athletics or psychiatrists in the medical community. “Glamour jobs” in a world of hoof and horn.

  COMING OUT

  There are few things more painful to watch than the “coming out” of a cowboy.

  I had known Don for twenty-five years. Known his family, sat at his table, and leaned on him now and then. He was a good ranch manager in his day. He did things the cowboy way and was honest as a cedar post.

  I recently ran into him and we had a warm reunion. “Whatcha doin’ now?” I asked. He sort of hemmed and hawed. “Oh, I been doin’ a little day work for a fellow up the road.”

  “On a ranch?” I asked.

  “Not exactly . . .”

  “A feedyard deal?”

  “Well, no . . .”

  “Let me guess,” I harassed him. “Yer leadin’ tourists around the desert on a bunch of ol’ plugs and tellin’ em what a great cowboy you were?” I laughed at my joke. He turned pale. I suddenly got embarrassed. “I was only kiddin’; I know you wouldn’t ever . . .” His eyes began to well with tears.

  “You mean . . . ?” I asked. He nodded mournfully. “I’m wranglin’ dudes. . . .” I glanced around nervously, not wanting any of our cowboy friends to overhear.

  “I just sort of fell into it,” he snuffled, and began to confess. I handed him my hanky. “We moved to town where my wife could get a good job. I tried selling western clothes, building saddles, even tried to be a movie extra, which is awful close to wranglin’ dudes, then finally this carny–kiddie ride guy offered me a job tendin’ his dude string. The grandkids were back with us, we needed the money.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I said, patting his shoulder. “You’ll get back with the cows sometime.”

  “No . . . I’m already a marked man. I’ve learned some yodeling tricks. They tip bigger if you tuck yer pants in yer boot tops and wear a stampede string. I’ve even started writing cowboy poetry. I go by the name Sagebrush.”

  “Surely not!” I put my arm around him. It was an emotional moment. “Yes,” he said through the tears, “I even have names for the horses—Fury, Black Beauty, My Little Pony, Buttermilk. . . .”

  I stopped him. “They have clinics, ya know. There’s one in Luverne, Minnesota. Not a tourist for miles. You can get back to basics. Saddle, rope, cow.”

  “It’s no use,” he said, catching his breath and sighing, “It’s just that . . . I like it. They think I’m king of the cowboys! They like my stories. I’m a hero like John Wayne or Billy Crystal or Robert Redford . . .”

  “Why they couldn’t even pack your saddle,” I snorted.

  “I know,” he said, “but we’re all in show business.”

  I shook my head sadly. “Sorry ol’ pal. Well, I’ll see ya. I gotta go make some promo spots for my next appearance at the big western Art Fest and Boot and Spur Show.”

  Therio, from the Greek therion, meaning “beast,” and geno-, from the Greek gennan, meaning “to produce.” As opposed to genuflect, Genyplasty, an operation for restoring the cheek, or gentoo, which is a penguin abundant in the Falkland Islands.

  THERIOGENOLOGIST

  Theriogenologist? I was one and didn’t even know it! A specialist in animal reproduction. An ovary observer, a diddler of the zygote. One who devotes his life to preserving pregnancy . . . a cow plumber.

  Included in this broad field would be embryo transplanters, diagnostic palpaters, infertility detectives, fertility evaluators, artificial inseminators, and others identified by their green fingernails and white socks.

  Those folks who practice this profession are an unusual group. They don’t wear a tie to work. They approach their business like a professional football player, knowing when the game’s over they’re gonna look a lot worse. It is not a career for the fastidious.

  Dick Butkus or Burt Reynolds would have been good theriogenologists. However, I can’t see Fred Astaire or Michael Jackson at ease in a pair of muddy five-buckle overshoes, with manure in their ear. They would make better equine practitioners.

  People who work at the rear end of a cow develop a similar personality. They’re usually “good ol’ boy” types who have a high humiliation level. If one were easily embarrassed, under a cow’s tail—“behind the gun,” so to speak—is not the place to be.

  There are dangers. Like the veterinarian who was preg checking one fine afternoon when the cow went down in the chute, breaking his arm. The fractured bone pierced his plastic sleeve and lodged him securely inside the cow like a fishhook.

  But most injuries are more damaging to one’s self-esteem. Gary was a struggling newlywed who was doing artificial insemination to supplant his meager graduate student income. He arrived at the dairy with one plastic sleeve in his kit. It lasted for five cows. Gritting his teeth, he approached cow number six and palpated her barehanded. Gruesome, perhaps, to the non-cowperson, but an acceptable alternative to the dedicated theriogenologist. As he began his treasure hunt in the final cow, he must have said something “unprofessional” because she kicked him on the inside of the thigh. He was elbow deep in holstein at the time. She clamped down on his arm as he fell to the ground writhing in pain.

  Driving home that evening in stinking agony, he made a terrifying discovery. He had lost his untarnished, twenty-four-karat, diamond-studded, five-year-payment-plan, once-in-a lifetime-extravagance, two-month-old wedding ring . . . inside the cow!

  Next morning, he returned to the dairy, armed with a metal detector, and was seen for days wandering through the fields, going from patty to patty like a beachcomber high on propane fumes.

  The bride was not happy. The mother-in-law was vindicated, however, since she had warned her daughter not to marry someone who makes a living that no one can pronounce.

  People would understand a lot more about life if they could think like an animal. It’s called anthropomorphism, attributing animal traits to humans.

  CAT LAWS

  I was reading the paper to the cat last week. She tries to keep up on current events, particularly stories about Ivana Trump and alien landings. We got to a story where a few obscure animal rights groups were calling for the nation’s 66 million pet cats to be kept indoors for life.

  “Why?” asked Miss Kitty.

  “Well,” I answered, “this says that free-roaming cats kill from 8 million to 217 million birds a year in Wisconsin alone.”

  “My, I had no idea there were that many birds in Wisconsin.”

  “Yes, and one person was quoted as saying, ‘We don’t want our house companions going out and killing other animals.’ ”


  “What about mice?” asked Miss Kitty, scratching behind her ear.

  “They don’t say, but they are also worried about you being eaten by coyotes.”

  “Then why don’t they keep all the coyotes indoors for life? It’s like making people bolt and bar their homes and stay inside during prime shopping hours. Why don’t they just keep all the criminals indoors for life?”

  “Good question, but they say cats are domesticated animals and coyotes are wild animals, and they don’t want to appear anti-wildlife.”

  “Mice are wildlife, so are birds; it’s all part of the food chain.”

  “They apparently want to remove cats from the food chain.

  For your own protection, of course.”

  “I thought it was to protect the birds,” said Miss Kitty, ever vigilant to flaws in my logic. “And besides, do they really enjoy that odoriferous cat box in the laundry room? It’s bad enough to walk around in a Tupperware toilet if you’re a cat. I’ve always envied camels. Sand as far as you can see. Go anytime you please.”

  “They suggested that humans who want their cats to spend time outdoors need to invest in an outdoor enclosure, or walk their cats on a harness.”

  Miss Kitty got indignant. “You ever tried to walk a cat in a harness! We’re not dogs, you know! I’ve spent a lifetime keepin’ your place free of rodents and vermin, and this is the thanks I get. So I eat a bird now and then. And another thing, I’ve lost more friends to car tires than coyotes. Why don’t they have speed limits slow enough to let cats get out of the way.”

  “Wait a minute,” I protested. “It isn’t me; it’s just a story in the paper.”

  “Sure,” she huffed, “but some self-appointed cat lover will weasel or badger you into makin’ me a house cat. You’ll fall for it and take me prisoner. Next thing I know, you’ll be takin’ me for walks in a cat harness. Not for me, buckaroo. I’m leavin’.”

  “Wait,” I pleaded, “Where will you go?”

  “Well,” she said, “I’ve always wanted to see Wisconsin.”