Cowboy without a Horse

I asked my wife last night: "Have I ever been a cowboy?" She said she didn't think so. At least, I hadn't told her if I was. That got be to thinking...Do you have to be on a horse to be a cowboy? After all, I did use to take care of cows on the farm. I had to take hay out to them and break up the bales and spread the hay around. They seemed to appreciate it, although, they never said.

Cows are pretty docile if you don't spook them, just like on the westerns. Spook them and it's 'katie bar the door'. They will run over everything in their way.

On this cold winter day the ground was frozen and me and the cows had frosty breath coming out of our noses and mouths. I was minding my own business getting hay off the trailer and spreading it around. Butch was our collie. He herded cattle by making them mad and letting them chase him to the desired location. That day he was just being a bad dog. I tried to tell him but he kept playing around. He would pinch a cow with his teeth on the back of their leg and then run under the fence where they couldn't get to him. He was having a ball.

I on the other hand was out amongst the cows breaking up bales of hay. They couldn't get Butch so eventually they turned their anger toward me and my red shirt. Don't ask me why I wore a red shirt. I knew better. Probably it was because my other one was dirty. I tried to give the cows extra room while I went about my work. They continued to crowd me until I was separated from the tractor and trailer and my load of hay. I decided to sprint away from them and circle back around the old building that was there. That was a bad idea.

The first cow started to cut me off and was followed by the rest of the herd. I didn't know that cow was in charge of the whole bunch. You are right. Butch must have gone to the house now that his fun was over. Anyway, I started to jog and so did the cows. I looked nothing like Butch. He traveled on all fours and ran low to the ground. I ran on twos and was taller than Butch. Somehow the cows got me into open pasture. It was a half mile to the next fence. There were no trees. I was no longer jogging. I ran flat out for the next fence over, that divided our pasture from the neighbors. It took me a quarter of a mile to get enough distance so that the cows could no longer see me. I started to circle and so did they but they lost sight of me finally. Did I say I was fast on my feet?

I made it to the dividing fence and started to climb with the intention of jumping into the other pasture and following the fence line back to my barn. Just as I started to leap I looked down and saw the biggest red bull in the world. It was the neighbors bull who appeared to be watching the whole thing as if it was some kind of show. I threw on the jumping breaks and noticed our cows had gone back toward their breakfast.

I know Butch, the red bull and our cows all had a good laugh over me running down across that pasture not caring what I stepped in. I was not laughing although I do find it a little funny now. I still don't know if that makes me a cowboy. I expect I'd still have to have a horse but on that day I'm sure I could have out run even a horse.

Never Punch a Cow when you are Milking

Milking a cow was quite aggravating. It was a chore that had to be done early in the morning and about dark in the evenings. Stop milking the cow and pretty soon you get no milk.

We always put the cow up for the night after the evening milking and turned her out after the morning milking. In the winter, it was so cold you could barely feel your fingers when you were finished. Well, it was my fingers and you were not there but anyway. The cow was not very happy about the operation either.

In the summer, it's those flies that always start the trouble. They land on the cow, she takes a swat at it, hits you instead. I never learned the trick of tying the cows tail to her back leg until long after I left the farm.

One morning, I was milking the cow. She attacked one of those flies and about knocked me out. I reacted by giving her a swift punch in the side (yes, I still feel guilty). She then proceeds to step in the milk bucket to let me know my punch hurt. The fly got away and the milk bucket was not full when I got to the house. I guess sometimes you just got to take your licks.

Old fireplace.

Speakin' of Countin'

We had an old mule one time back on the farm. There wasn't much cotton picking or corn picking to do, we had already done that, so I was out in the woods with the mule trying to snake up some firewood. I must have been twelve or thirteen already and weighed at least seventy pounds so that old mule was no match for me. He probably wouldn't a pound over two thousand. I got the harness on him and hooked up the single-tree with the dogs (hooks for the logs) dragging on the ground and a hammer in my hand. I got him backed up to the log and started driving the dogs into the downed tree. It was my first time but I knew to put the dogs on three sides so the log would pull and not roll. Now my dad was a logger from way back and that old mule knew him. That old mule also knew how many times my dad swung the hammer to get the dogs in the log. I took too many swings and the mule lost his patience. He took off to the woodpile and stopped. 'Now what was that all about, he forgot the log.' I chased after him and we tried again. On the same number of swings, the mule headed for the woodpile. This time though the log was attached enough for him to drag it with him. It took me a while to figure it out but that old mule was counting my swings by the ping it made when I hit the dog with the hammer. A countin' mule, now that is something. Wall Street and Washington both could use an old mule like that.