Working Ranch Magazine - Index

Working Ranch Magazine - magazine - Index

There’s a lot to be said for a bunch
of cows that know when to line out
in front of a bunch of cowboys, but
they also respect a man on foot.
This ain’t the 1880’s anymore, and
you need to get those cows out
there tamed up at least enough
that they don’t try to kill the first
man they see afootback.
rom my journal…
The calves looked great that Saturday morning as
I started to ride my grid in the big feedyard pen.
Seemed like it had taken me forever to get this bunch
of cattle settled over the past few weeks, they were
wild as a Bingo hall full of flying squirrels when they
first ran off the truck. But everyone seemed content
on this glorious day and even the feedtruck driver,
normally a quiet guy who kept his eyes on the bunk
and his mind on the job, waved to me and smiled.
What a wonderful life this was blossoming into.
Over in the corner next to the water tank stood a
calf, eyes closed and head down. “Hmmm”, I thought,
“that sure looks like a classic early-stage BRD.” Only
an expert like me coulda picked him out I reminded
myself with a self-serving slap on the back. My morning-sharp
brain, recently brought to life with several
cups of yesterday’s coffee warmed up in the lunchroom
microwave, was just fixin’ to send a signal down
to my boot heels to fire up my cow-pony into a forward
walk when up the feedlane strolls a college kid that
the manager had hired to clean out the water bowls
over the weekend.
“Hi, Tim, how’s it going?” he asked while climbing
through the bunk wielding a white toilet brush
dripping with water bowl slime. His cheery disposition
almost melted a tiny part of my cold, feedlothardened
heart. Almost.
That’s when it happened.
The entire pen of calves, including my sick one and
everything else on the feed pad and the bedding
mound, flushed to the back of the pen, plastering
themselves against the return alley fence in a huge
cluster 250 head strong. All eyes and ears were focused
on the intruder. I didn’t even get a chance to write
down my sickie. He was gone forever, lost in the crowd.
“Sorry, was that my fault?” the well-meaning
young man inquired.
Resting my elbow on the saddle horn, I cradled my
head in the palm of my hand and stared blankly in
the direction of the snakey calves. My horse looked
down at his front feet and let out one of those snotblowing
episodes through a set of puckered lips. All
horses do that from time to time, but I thought this
one was delivered with just a hint of disrespect. The
timing was too perfect. This horse was a sly devil
indeed. I would have to remember that when it came
time to sell him.
I sat there and pondered the lad’s question, partly
because the question itself was a good one, and partly
because I had to wait at least fifteen minutes for
the cattle in this pen to re-settle anyway, so I had
some time on my hands. Besides, I was getting paid
by the hour.
– 1997