by Baxter Black
All of us who spend our lives tending livestock are aware that our daily working vocabulary is not always proper amongst people from outside the real world (gentiles, I call them). When our new preacher, who hails from Chicago, is introduced to us, we don’t immediately invite him to the oyster fry next Tuesday.
I would guess the people who are most conscious of this “cowboy vocabulary” are new spouses marrying into a livestock-raising family. I’ll bet they could write a book!
So, to those of you sensitive folks who read my commentaries with some reservations, or have neighbors who sit at your dinner table and talk about how to get cow manure stains out of a good shirt, I beg your indulgence. It’s not dirty to us, it’s just grass and water.
Just about the time I get to thinking my dog is almost lovable, I catch him mouthing a road apple or draggin’ a piece of javelina haunch home. Maybe decorum is not something I should expect in a cowdog.
DOG ROLLIN’
There are some deep philosophical questions that cry out for explanation: Is there really life after death? Do fish ever get tired of seafood? And why do dogs roll in fresh horse manure?
To the dog’s credit, it doesn’t have to be horse’s manure, and it doesn’t have to be fresh. It can be old garbage, big-game offal, varmint remains, unrecognizable roadkill, swamp water, sewage drains, rotting cabbage, putrifying hen eggs, cow pies . . . virtually anything that would make a maggot nauseous.
For three weeks, my next-to-worthless all-American cowdog, Boller, came home smellin’ like fish. And friends, it didn’t waft off him with the delicate aroma of fresh trout frying in lemon and butter. It was like opening an apartment door on a dead buffalo in August.
I gave him several baths and kept him chained at night. All to no avail. Finally I cut him loose and tracked him across the road. Our creek had run full early in the spring, then went down. It had stranded some Boone and Crockett carp on the bank. Boller went over and played with them every day. Left his new rawhide bone on the porch.
I quizzed him about his filthy habits. He looked at me with that same exasperated expression I had seen on my uncle Dink when I asked him why he drank warm buttermilk.
I considered and discarded the theory that it is some instinctive protective device. Can you imagine a pack of wolves trying to sneak up on a herd of caribou after rolling through a pile of whale droppings and dosing themselves liberally with polar bear vomit? The caribou would pick ’em up as soon as they cleared Canadian customs!
It occurred to me it might be an insect repellent. Certainly it would offend the discriminating bug, but I doubt if that includes ticks, skeeters, flies, lice, bedbugs, fleas, or your average bloodsucking bat.
Maybe it has something to do with making them attractive to a prospective mate? There are certainly some modern corollaries in the human race that lend credence to this theory. A whole industry is based on making us smell like Pine Sol, cheddar cheese, or a rutting beaver.
Even if I could figger out the reason for this revolting animal behavior, I doubt it would make Boller any easier to be around. I do know this: Be careful letting a dog lick your face, for the same reason you should hesitate before shakin’ a veterinarian’s hand. . . . You never know where it’s been!
BONNIE AND DAN
Bonnie and Dan are a happy couple. Jack was merely a ship in the night. Bonnie is a bullterrier. Best described as a forty-pound blunt Cheeto with stubby appendages and a pointy tail. Maybe more like a twelve-inch concrete pipe with an antenna.
Roughhousing with her is like playing with a cinder block. Why anyone would own something designed to “tarry bulls” could be explained by applying the same logic to Porsche owners: Why would anyone own a car that seats two, costs more than a B-1 bomber, looks like a Jerusalem cricket, and goes 140 mph? Companionship. Bonnie has tight skin, a breed characteristic she shares with bankers, so that her eyes have an oriental look and she always appears to be smiling, which she is! She is affectionate by nature and the perfect companion for Dan, a retired curmudgeon who still curmudges part-time.
Enter Jack. Bullterrier with a pocketful of genes . . . bullterrier genes, chromosomes to be more precise, in sizes X and Y, which he deposited on her uterine doorstep.
Bonnie became great with puppy . . . and delivered the single offspring to great expectation. Alas, tragedy intervened, and the anticipated heir to Dan’s affection did not survive. Dan was stoic, Jack was indifferent, but Bonnie was distraught.
The day after delivering, Bonnie was found burrowed in a dark corner of an old wooden ammunition box. For two days, she lay in the box, leaving only to tend to necessities. Finally Dan peeked into her hiding place with a flashlight, and lo and behold, there lay his missing slipper. He had made it himself out of elk hide, leather thongs, and braided rawhide buttons. It was wet and wadded.
Bonnie came rushing back, nearly knocking him over, and lay down next to the slipper. She licked it lovingly and nudged it with her nose toward her swollen breakfast nook. For the next four days, she nurtured and protected the nest. Any time Jack would approach, she’d come bursting out of the box, snarling like a mama grizzly.
Dan gave her the time and space she needed to get over the loss. Although, he did ask around about when to wean slippers. By the time she recovered, his handmade elk hide footwear looked like a hippopotamus cud.
Well, another season has passed. Bonnie is great with puppy again. Dan is thrilled and Jack is indifferent. But deep in her heart, I suspect Bonnie is hoping that the new baby will look as much like Dan as the last one.
MARGINAL QUOTES
→ “As long as you’ve got good elimination, you’ve got it made.”—Uncle Leonard
→ “If a man can’t drive in a bar ditch, he’s got no business on the highway.”—Tink
→ “When asked how she got to be president, Anita replied, ‘I missed the meeting.’ ”
→ “You can’t use too much tape.”—Dr. Allen
→ Tom H. says, “I enjoy all company. Some when they arrive, some when they leave.”
→ “A true friend will tell you if yer hat’s on backwards.”—Calvin
→ “I’d rather be at the head of the ditch with a shovel than at the bottom with a decree.”—Tom on irrigation rights
→ “If they won’t come, you can’t stop ’em.”—Yogi B.
→ “He’s stooping to new heights.”—Sandy
→ “His eyes are so squinty, they could blindfold him with dental floss.”—Buck
→ “They teach chickens to lay eggs by walkin’ back and forth in front of them with a hatchet, humming, ‘Mmm, mmm, good, mmm, mmm, good. . . .’ ”—Doug
→ “The right to be heard does not include the right to be taken seriously.”—Hubert H.
→ “If you wanna put out a fire, start yer own!”—Hoot
→ “Cowboys walk in parts.”—Peter
→ “You have to know Mr. Dewey well in order to dislike him.”—Margaret T.
→ “Looks like his bad luck has peaked.”—baxter
→ “Horseshoein’s not so hard. It’s just the dread of doing it.”—Carl
→ “His sleeping bag smelled like they drove geese into it and beat them to death.”—Oly K.
→ “It’s been a month of Mondays!”—Sheryl
→ “I don’t deserve this award, but I’ve got sinuses and I don’t deserve them, either.”—Ace R.
→ “Sometimes you have no choice, so take it!”—baxter
→ “If yer smart, you’ll always believe in Santa Claus.” —Judy
→ “Sure you can sell out when things are good. But then what will you do?”—John
→ “Of course your waffle is tough; you ate the potholder.”—baxter
When one of my cowboy friends tells me he’s getting married, my first question is “Does she have a job?” This particular wedding took place in the pines of Arizona. I thought that I would never again see such a group of ill-prepared misfits as these groomsmen. Then Presiden
t Clinton appointed his cabinet. But whatever magic took place, it must have worked; they’re still married and she’s still got a job.
COWBOY WEDDING
There’s two things a cowboy’s afraid of: Bein’ stranded afoot and a decent woman. I went to a cowboy wedding recently where the bridegroom had found him a decent woman. This was not yer normal walk-down-the-aisle, kiss-the-bride kind of wedding. This was the merger of two Arizona ranching families, complete with rings made outta barbwire, a fiddle playin’ “Here Comes the Bride,” and mosquitoes.
The families had worked for weeks gettin’ everything ready. Three days before the main event, they set a big tent up in the meadow for the reception and dance. Up came a big storm and blew down the tent. They said when it blew down, it looked like a fat lady sittin’ on a roll-away bed.
The bridesmaids all looked beautiful in their long dresses. The groomsmen, however, presented a different picture. Putting a suit coat on some of those cowboys was like puttin’ croutons on a cow pie. The sisters had made them all gray suit coats and bandannas. Weddings seem to make cowboys uncomfortable. These fellers looked like they were still hanging in the closet—paralyzed!
Part of their condition could be attributed to the forty-eight-hour bachelor party that preceded the knot tyin’! The groom was maneuvered around on the wedding day like a NASA moonwalker. Sleep had not been allowed, and, with the bride’s permission, his blood alcohol level was just below Extremely Flammable.
The appointed hour arrived. The priest got up and explained that this was not a normal Catholic wedding (he was wearing a sport shirt and jogging shoes), but it would be legal just the same. Everybody, and there was a bunch of them, got seated in this pretty little cove, complete with a lagoon in the background. It was like God had made this spot just for the wedding.
It rained a little but no one cared. The bride was lovely. She stood out like a penguin in an asphalt parking lot. The priest asked Dad, “Who gives this woman in matrimony?” He replied, “Her mother and I and the Valley Bank.” When it came time for the kiss to seal the vows, the bride and groom spit out their chew and laid to it.
At the bride’s request, we played “Walkin’ the Dog” as the wedding party marched out. It was fitting, I guess, ’cause Billy’s ol’ dog, Bronc, caught the bouquet.
Seems there’s a lot of mileage gotten by lamenting the cowboy as a vanishing breed. But if you don’t live out here with the cows and the brush, how would you know? It would be like me writing odes to the vanishing cricket player. I don’t see any or know any, so they must be vanishing. Let me assure you, though some may have a job in town, there are still plenty of cowboys out there who can get the job done.
REAL THING
He was lookin’ for work. I was buildin’ corrals, stretchin’ wire, layin’ rock, and clearin’ brush. I asked him what he could do. He said, “I’m a cowboy.” For six months, Frank built corrals, stretched wire, laid rock, and cleared brush. He worked hard and stayed on. It was skilled labor but hard on the back and hands.
Last spring, I went to Gerald’s branding and asked him if I could bring along an extra hand. Gerald said the more, the merrier. “Can he ride?” he asked.
“Well,” I replied, “he told me he was a cowboy.”
We got to the ranch and Gerald got him mounted. Frank had brought an old rope but no chaps or spurs. We rode out to gather the bunch. Gerald asked me if I’d drag calves to the fire, since we were shorthanded. Flattered, I said, “You bet.” By midmorning, we’d gathered a hundred or so cows with calves into a tight trap.
On Gerald’s orders, we were trying to sort out a big high-horned half-Bramer barren cow. Four times we got her to the gate, and four times she broke back. Gerald was determined, and he is a good cowboy. He roped her and started draggin’ her toward the gate. She went down. Wouldn’t budge. Stuck like a D-8 Cat in a cranberry bog.
“Git another rope on her!” Gerald hollered. While I was fumblin’ around tryin’ to unleash my rope, I saw a beautiful flat loop sail over my horse’s nose from left to right and settle around the cow’s butt. Frank’s rope came tight. One hard pull, and she was on her feet, then Gerald and Frank drug her out the gate. The dynamics of our little group changed perceptively.
Thirty minutes later, we had ’em in the branding corral. All but one two-hundred-pound black bally calf. He was wild as a deer, and it took us several tries to get him back up to the fence, but he couldn’t find the gate. Gerald eased up to within ten feet, threw an easy loop, . . . and missed. The calf spun like an Olympic swimmer and shot between us. I heard a whiz and a whoosh. Frank had thrown his rope from a sideways position, fired it like a harpoon, and caught that calf goin’ straight away on a dead run at twenty feet.
Gerald looked at me. “I b’lieve I’ll ask Frank if he’ll drag ’em to the fire.”
“It would be the right thing,” I said, with a newfound respect we both felt. Frank, whose real name is Francisco, is still buildin’ fences and settin’ posts for me. There’s lots of Franks and Franciscos and Bobbys, Josés, Eddies, and Rogers out there sellin’ feed, teachin’ school, drivin’ trucks, and pickin’ strawberries. Drawin’ a paycheck.
That’s what they do, but it’s not what they are. If you ask ’em, they’ll look you straight in the eye and tell ya, “Soy un vaquero.” . . . “I’m a cowboy.”
THE COWBOY IMAGE
The livestock business has an effective symbol that has withstood the loving treatment of Hollywood, Nashville, and Madison Avenue. It is the cowboy.
Hollywood made heroes of cowboys who always got the bad guy, practiced safe shooting, and could leap on their horses from a burning train! Then John Travolta gave us the urban cowboy who could disco, and wore a straw hat made of oatmeal, rattlesnake heads, and sweepings off a chicken house floor!
Nashville turned us into four-wheel-drive cowboys. Yodelers with pompadours who drank too much and looked like a cross between Roy Rogers and a Filipino bus!
Madison Avenue has given us chain-smokers and colognes called Stetson and Chaps (as in, that sure “chaps” my butt!), all designed for men who don’t wear socks!
Through it all, the public’s image of cowboys has remained positive. The anti–livestock industry groups have had a tough time tarnishing our symbol. It’s been hard for them to portray the American cowboy as a money-grubbing, animal-abusing land raper. They whack away at it persistently, often using the ruse that the cowboy is a vanishing breed. That he no longer exists, and therefore, this symbol that everybody loves has no connection with the modern livestock business. This myth continues to be promoted to the point that we are often asked, sadly, if it is true our way of life is dying.
To this, I reply no. Of course not! Who do you think is takin’ care of the cows? But, they say, we never see them.
There is a good explanation why you never see cowboys. It is possible to get in a car and drive from Philadelphia to Fresno and be completely insulated from the territory you cross.
The car is climate controlled. You never roll down the windows. You pull onto a freeway that is the same from one end of the country to the other. Although you drive through green to brown from high to low, you never have to change the cruise control.
You come down an off-ramp into virtually the same self-service gas station/convenience store. You use the same credit card and buy the same cardboard coffee and irradiated snack cake.
You turn on the radio and hear a trained generic disc jockey playing the same canned tape of Top 40 hits. You stay in the same temperature-controlled Holiday Inn or Motel 6, see the same CNN or HBO. You eat at the same Denny’s or McDonald’s.
It is possible to drive from one end of the country to the other in your enclosed gas-powered cocoon and never smell air or touch dirt.
However, on either side of the road, even in what appears to be desolate country, you can find homes, schools, roads, farms, and ranching communities thriving. And cowboys. Lots of ’em! The only thing is, friends, you just can’t
see ’em from the road!
The idle mind will come up with something, anything, to keep from takin’ an 8 to 5 job.
KEEPIN’ BUSY
“Skip, whattya doin’ nowadays?”
“Oh, I’m doin’ a little day work for Irsik and ridin’ two green colts for fifty dollars a month. I think I’ve just about sold that load of salvage lumber I traded Mr. Jolly out of.
“Some guy came by the other day and wants me to audition for the Marlboro Man. Said they pay pretty good even if they don’t pick me!
“I’ve put the down on some green pasture. If my pardner comes through, we’re gonna turn out a few steers.
“I’ve got some other deals workin’, playin’ guitar with Butch and Jim on Fridays at the Fort, shoein’ the odd horse now and then. Ol’ Man Gammon pays me to irrigate his yard every other Sunday.
“Other than that, . . . not much.”
Thank goodness his wife has a job! Skip is one of those fine fellers who eases through life from one project to another just fillin’ in the gaps.
He’s the man you can call at noon on Tuesday and get some help. Chances are he could hook up a trailer and go pick up something for you at the sale. ’Specially if you gassed him up first!
He’s one of the few individuals who never misses a ropin’, a weekday grade school track meet, a car wreck, a beer bust, horse sale, pancake feed, or political rally.
He’d no more think of makin’ a “career change” that would require his movin’ outta town than he’d consider filing his income taxes on time!
He was offered a seasonal job with the highway department as a sign fluctuater but declined at the last minute ’cause somethin’ came up.
I’ve always been curious what he writes on a form when it asks his occupation. Executive Enabler? Implementation Specialist? Relationship Analyst? Impediment Counselor? Maybe just Omniconsultant.
