Horseshoes, Cowsocks & Duckfeet

by Baxter Black

  But is it still possible to “save the East”? By definition, that would mean it should be returned to its pre-Pilgrim state.

  This would involve removing all commerce from the Chesapeake Bay and Boston Harbor. Eliminate those preying on tourists in Atlantic City and Nantucket. Reintroducing mountain lions, wolves, and grizzly bears in Gettysburg, Albany, and Washington, D.C., planting endangered species in Lake Ontario, and establishing plover and seagull commons on Long Island. A massive undertaking.

  So, has the East really vanished, or should my journalist pen pal retreat to Baltimore to do her chronicling while there is still time? And more important, can we still save the East, or must we be stoic, keep one eye pointed toward the sunset, and march on lest we glance back like Lot’s wife, and turn into a pillar of salt?

  To their credit, the people from the TV channel wrote me a thoughtful response. I still haven’t seen a feature on how to cut up a chicken or dehorn a goat, but maybe that’s too “real life.”

  DEAR ANIMAL PLANET

  Dear Animal Planet,

  You have a great channel on cable TV. Many of the shows are fascinating and informative. However, there is a conspicuous absence of the most indispensable animals on the planet: domestic livestock.

  Part of your popularity is the emphasis on human-animal bonding. You present animals, glamorous or otherwise, as creatures worthy of our esteem. You even use animals as comedians, straight men, fall guys, victims, sports figures, teachers, actors, singers, and commercial spokescritters. It is a cornucopia of Disney-like anthropomorphism, using live animals instead of cartoons.

  But you also show death on the Serengeti. Exposing city children to the simple act of a cheetah kill is essential if they are to ever understand the order of existence on earth. It has been a part of life since omnivores entered the food chain.

  So I would suggest that including related stories about domestic animals and the people who care for them would be an easy step. Ninety-seven percent of our population eats meat. Yet most urban kids have no idea where it comes from. Modern society has separated the ham from the burger, the chicken from the nugget, and the hot fudge sundae from the holstein.

  We have sanitized our children’s world. So they can eat without considering the sacrifice and service that domestic animals provide to humans’ well-being. For those who might think urban people are not capable of dealing with the blunt truth of animal production, I suggest that they are. From the beginning of civilization until fifty years ago, the majority of the earth’s population was agriculturally cognizant. People learned from childhood the intricate intimacy of raising and dealing with livestock.

  Country kids still maintain this close natural relationship. It instills respect and a sacred responsibility toward those animals in their care who are destined for the food chain. Conversations with these country kids would open a world of understanding to an audience largely insulated from this fundamental part of their real life.

  When my daughter was eleven years old, we were raising rabbits. She was showing a new litter to her urban aunt. “They’re so cute,” said Aunt. “What will you do with them?”

  “When they’re about five pounds, we sell them to the grocery store,” she replied.

  Her aunt was aghast! “How can you do that!” she blurted.

  My eleven-year-old looked up at her and said, “I don’t make friends with them.”

  Wisdom as ancient as time from the mouth of a child. It could be useful on Animal Planet.

  The continuing saga of the city mouse and the country mouse.

  NEW NEIGHBORS

  Country versus Urban—the rubbing of cultural tectonic plates.

  Mike is a rancher in that beautiful-to-look-at country of central Oregon. His ranch house is set back from the road, fronted by a lush irrigated pasture.

  In the green flush of late spring, sprinkled with colorful bovines, backdropped by verdant pines, porcelain-white clouds and china-blue sky, the setting is pretty as a picture. Perfect for developers promoting nearby “ranchette estates.”

  Hot on the trail of peace and serenity—straight from the five-speed, fuel-injected, Teflon-encased, pre-taste-tested coast of central California came the new urban next-door neighbor.

  Gushing and garrulous, he descended on Mike one afternoon as he labored at irrigating the roadside pasture that bordered both their front yards.

  The new neighbor, hereinafter referred to as Sherman, was deeply impressed by the cows and how beautiful they looked in the overall pasture setting. He liked that he could see them from his living room window. Sherman had been in the “art world” before he began networking web pages and appreciated Mike’s cow color selections.

  “The russet and beige offset the licorice and peppermint so well. They look like Christmas candy in an Easter basket,” he opined. “I hope you don’t mind if I befriend them?”

  They parted, Sherman walking on air and Mike scratching his head.

  The following week a big ruckus ensued when Mike found half his cows out on the highway. Tracking them back home, he found the break in the fence. It was a hundred yards long and ran across the front of Sherman’s lawn. The posts and wire were gone!

  “What were you thinking?” asked the incredulous Mike.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Sherman excitedly. “I’ve bought a beautiful three-pole, drilled-and-doweled pine log fence to put in its place. It’ll be here in a couple of weeks.”

  “Well, what are we gonna use in the meantime to keep the cows off the road?”

  “Don’t you have some fence we can use temporarily?”

  “I did,” said Mike, “but you took it all down. Where is it?”

  “I gave it to my brother-in-law to use for his horse. The green posts and silvery wire complement his Appaloosa better than your cows.” Sherman put an arm around Mike’s shoulder. “Come in the house, and I’ll show you my plans for redecorating your barn.”

  JUST SAY NO!

  → “My brother says it works everytime!”

  → “I know Pinto took her out, but she’s not that kind of a girl!”

  → “Your wife will just love a new drill press!”

  → “It’s the cow deal of a lifetime, but I need a cosigner!”

  → “It’s not cleared for scours, and I can’t officially recommend it, but . . .”

  → “This will make you rich!”

  → “The Japanese eat it this way all the time!”

  → “The Indians ate it like this right after they killed the buffalo!”

  → “I know his sire was a dwarf, but I don’t think it’s hereditary!”

  → “I’ve got it on good authority they’re going to rezone this property!”

  → “Buy this guy in the calcutta. You’ve never heard of him, but he ropes good; he just doesn’t travel much!”

  → “The vet say’s she’ll settle in spite of how it looks!”

  → “He just bumped it in the trailer!”

  → “I know they look drawn, but think of the weighin’ condition!”

  → “I never turned a steer out on the place that didn’t gain three hundred pounds!”

  → “Yer right, it is the runt. But he’s the smartest one of the litter!”

  → “A little hot wire and you could run six hundred buffalo on this place!”

  → “Sure I kin fix yer car. Kin I borry yer tools?”

  → “If she’s not in foal, I’ll eat my hat!”

  → “This aluminum gate comes with a lifetime guarantee!”

  → “Why, the hunting lease will make the payments on this ol’ ranch!”

  → “I’ll buy ’em back in the fall!”

  → “No, I’ve never heard a horse bark like that before, either, but I don’t think it’s serious!”

  → “And with this degree in economics you’ll always be able to get a job!”

  → “If you elect me . . .”

  Old dogs don’t age any more gracefully than most humans. We k
inda draw into ourselves and spend a lot of time dreamin’ about the good old days. Uncle Leonard, who died at ninety-four, said it best: “Why can’t we lose our testicles and keep our teeth.”

  OL’ ROOKIE’S FLASHBACK

  Old dogs. They write songs about ’em and watermelon wine. They have sayings about ’em learning new tricks. They even name feet after them, i.e., “My ol’ dogs are shore tired!”

  In a dog’s life span, they usually figure seven dog years equals one human year. Little dogs usually live longer than big dogs. Fourteen is old for a dog. Rookie turned fourteen this year.

  Ol’ Rookie is a good-sized spotted hound dog belonging to my friend Mac. I saw the two of them this summer. Mac was lookin’ good; Rookie looked like a dyin’ duck in a thunder-storm! He was drawn up and pore. He panted and gazed into space a lot of the time. He had trouble getting up and down. He stumbled over Popsicle sticks and tumblebugs.

  We thought he was so deaf, he couldn’t hear himself bark. But after closer observation, we noticed that when you called him, ol’ Rookie would look the other way. I reckon he was just ignoring us. A privilege we grant older folks of any species.

  He practiced “snappin flies.” Only trouble was, after they’d been snapped, he’d open his mouth and the fly would buzz out lazily. Rookie didn’t have many teeth left, ya see.

  He had fleas, ticks, and a squadron of flies that hovered over him like groupies around a rock star. I suggested we give him a bath and hang an insecticide ear tag on his collar. Mac said he’d considered that, but he was afraid the ol’ dog would be lonesome. I didn’t understand. He said ol’ Rookie is packin’ his own peanut gallery!

  He’d doze off in the shade of a tree, then sit up suddenly and start barking. Then he’d look around with a puzzled expression and flop back down in the grass. Barkin’ at old memories.

  I saw him walk out to the road and visit with a Doberman female. They sniffed, and I saw his tail wag a little and a silly grin slide across his ol’ gray muzzle. I said, “Look at that. He’s still got fire in the furnace!”

  Mac glanced at his longtime canine pardner and said, “Don’t get yer hopes up. I think ol’ Rookie’s just havin’ a flashback.”

  When I moved from Idaho to Colorado, I had quit my job, lost my house, car, horse, trailer, and first wife. The man takin’ over my veterinary job at the feedlot inherited my pickup. He took me to the airport and dropped me at the curb. “Have you got everything?” I looked down at my duct-taped guitar case and hangin’ bag. I felt my pockets, “Wait,” I said, “I forgot my keys, I . . .” I paused as it sunk in. I was down to no keys.

  DOWN TO NO KEYS

  I was visitin’ with an ol’ capacho the other day. We were talkin’ ’bout bein’ down to no keys. I said, “Pardner, have you ever been down and out?” “Down!” he said. “I been down so low I could count the spots on a lizard’s belly!”

  I said, “How’d ya git by?” He said, “When you got a lotta time to kill but no money to spend, well, let’s say I developed some mighty cheap hobbies.”

  “Like what?” says I.

  “Pickin’ yer nose. When you have the time to spend, that can become a highly developed art form. In fact, it should be an Olympic event. And finding addresses of old friends who owe you money.

  “Pickin’ up roadkill . . . you can render possum grease and sell coon hides. You can spend a lot of time runnin’ yer quail traps. I know fifteen different ways to line up cottontails so you can git two with one shot.

  “I taught a wild turkey to fetch and a raven how to bark like a coyote. I know how to season navy beans with prickly pear and fifty recipes for sardines and Vienna sausage.

  “I’ve spliced a million reins, hog-ringed my bit chains, and covered my horn with a nut sack just to git by. And a feller can spend a satisfyin’ afternoon huntin’ old horseshoes.

  “You can resole your boots with cowhide, cardboard, sidewalls, or electrical tape. Many’s the time I’ve straightened last year’s straw hat.

  “Some other cheap hobbies I’ve taken up are whittlin’, straightenin’ nails, cullin’ socks, patchin’ jeans, and rememberin’. Rememberin’, you do that a lot.

  “Summer evenin’s is a good time to identify insects.

  “If yer lucky enough to have an ol’ truck, lots of time can be piddled away keepin’ it runnin’. I’ve spent plenty of time figgerin’ out which tire to use for a spare. A field trip to the wreckin’ yard can be fun and productive. Lookin’ for good spark plugs, lug nuts, and drain-plug pans. Or jackin’ it up, collecting the motor oil, and letting it settle so you can use it again. Have you ever used tin foil for a head gasket?

  “I learned to cut my own hair, drink the less expensive wines, and make a bag of Red Man last six weeks.”

  “Gosh,” I said, “you oughta write a book!”

  “I can’t,” said he. “Too busy. This afternoon I’m goin’ through my old razor blades; what the sociologists call quality time.”

  Team roping is my hobby, but the ability to toss a loop around a beast and handle it is an asset in veterinary medicine. Matter of fact, a course in roping at veterinary school would have been more useful than the second semester of histology.

  THE ROPIN’ VET

  Louie used to buy horses for the feedlot. Whenever he’d find a good stout one that was deaf and looked like it could tread mud, he’d send it our way. I’d usually check ’em over, float their teeth, worm ’em, vaccinate ’em, and change their oil. Occasionally he sent one with no faults, but I was only there ten years, so I never saw him!

  Feedlot #3 called one morning to say Louie’d delivered a new horse to the yard. As I pulled up to the horse barn, I called Louie on the radio to ask about any “peculiarities.” I’d learned from past experience that all arrived with a flaw of some kind . . . some minor, some fatal.

  “Louie, what can you tell me ’bout the new horse?”

  “You’ll like him, Doc. Gentle as a puppy. Sound, maybe twelve years old, big’un . . . sixteen hands. Belonged to a little old lady who only rode him to the senior center once a week.”

  I waited.

  “Oh, by the way, he’s a little hard to catch.”

  In the first pen stood ol’ Whitey. He had a gentle look in his eye. I walked right up to him. He backed off. I coaxed, wheedled, cooed, and clucked him ’round and ’round the corral.

  Now, as any vet can tell ya, I didn’t hire on to train ’em! Just to doctor ’em!

  I ran outta patience, threw down the halter, and got out my rope! Although there are exceptions, most vets are not good ropers. It’s like givin’ a typewriter to a cephalopod! I roped the post, the hay rack, the back rubber, the barn door, the two horses with Whitey, and finally caught him in midair jumping the water tank!

  Years later, I still haven’t learned my lesson. To this day, I carry a rope and act like I can use it!

  Dr. Huey down in Tennessee is smarter’n me. He went out to look at an ol’ tobacco farmer’s sick calf.

  “He’s in the pasture, Doc. I’m busy but you’re young. You can catch him.”

  Huey dug his rope outta the truck and started swingin’ it. He knocked the ol’ man’s hat off before it finally hung on the pickup mirror.

  “You any good with that?” asked the ol’ man suspiciously.

  “Not too, but it don’t make any difference to me,” says Huey. “I charge a dollar a throw whether I catch ’em or not!”

  The ol’ man yelled over his shoulder, “Leroy, git out there and catch that calf for the good doctor!”

  The cowboy girl . . . unsung in history but never Silenced.

  GEORGE AND ELLIE

  I saw Ellie and George at the feed store the other day. She was wearing a walking cast on her left leg. She’d broken the dorsal tip of her fibula and pulled some tendons. It was the result of her perverse need to train young horses.

  She was in pain and George was despondent. She couldn’t drive, so he had to haul her to town every day to do errands. I r
emarked that she was the luckiest woman in the world to have an attentive and thoughtful man like him to wait on her hand and foot.

  He agreed and had formulated a workout program for her so that she wouldn’t feel completely useless. Another sign of his deep concern for her holistic well-being.

  He had been devoting considerable mental energy tryin’ to figger out the easiest way for her to open gates. It seemed to him that’s what she missed the most.

  I asked him how she got in the truck. He said he backed up to the loading chute and pushed her in with a wheelbarrow. He’d throwed a couple bales of straw in the back for her comfort.

  And gettin’ out? I asked. Easy as backin’ in the old chicken house and lettin’ her grab one of the low-hangin’ rafters. He said it worked pretty good the second time after he’d repaired the crossbeam.

  I wasn’t sure I understood how she managed to open the gate from the pickup bed. He said that was one of the drawbacks. He had to back everywhere he went. And she still had trouble with wire gates.

  How ’bout a big ramp of some kind, I suggested. She could drop it off the end of the tailgate and slide down. Maybe tie a piece of cotton rope to the gooseneck ball and pull herself back up.

  He’d already thought of that, he answered, but it took her too long to drag herself around the pickup and back. Not to mention the dirt and gravel that collected in her cast.

  “As we speak,” he informed me, “I’m workin’ on a new idea. Jack is weldin’ me a small A-frame with a boom on it. It’ll bolt to my front bumper. We’re gonna hang an ol’ truck tire by a chain on the boom. She’ll be able to swing sideways from one headlight to the other, open and close any gate I can get up to.”

  He’d fixed her up with a pushin’ pole and a gaff hook. “Should work slick as a whistle,” he said. “She can do it all by herself. Have a sense of accomplishment.”

  “And you won’t have to get out of the pickup,” I added.