Adventures in Cowboying

I went out with my husband Jason yesterday. When I say "out", I don't mean on a date.  I mean "OUT"  in the country, "OUT" away from civilization and Starbucks, "OUT" where men are men and sheep are scared.  Well, not quite that far.

 Now, you must know that just because I'm married to a cowboy, that does not  make me a cowgirl. You know that right? You know that I can't ride a horse? You know that I can't rope a steer? You know that my  jeans are usually too short to wear with boots?
Okay, as long as we've got that straight.
I've got this great idea for a book. I'm going to call it Never Blow Bubbles in the Cowpen and Other Lessons From a Dude.  The dude being me.  The only lesson I've learned so far is "never blow bubbles in the cowpen." In order to bring my idea to fruition, I need more material.  So, "OUT" we go. 
I knew we were going to get horseback.  I told you I can't ride a horse,  but what you may not know is I can't even get ON a horse.  That's right, I  need a boost on the butt. 
Here's my horse.  Not my horse, but the one I'm going to bounce around on, because that's what I do, bounce.

If you think he looks old, that's because he is.  He's old and safe, the way I like 'em.  He goes by the name of  Money.  I like that too. 

Money doesn't get out much, mostly just grazes in the pasture so he wanted to make sure he looked good. 

Do I have anything in my teeth?

Maybe you'd like a closeup of that. 

Purty, eh?

After I'm saddled, so begins our adventure.  Here's the plan.  We were going to sort off a sick calf and doctor it, then gather six bulls, load them in a trailer, and move them to another pasture.  Hmmm..... 

I'm a nervous wreck because I am way out of my comfort zone, on top of a horse that needs his teeth cleaned,  and my jeans are too short for wearing boots.  Jason, the cowboss, sensing my angst, consoles my with this advice: 

"Think like a cow." 

Gotcha!  All my anxiety melted right then and there.

We head out and ride into this trap that is holding some calves. Jason finds the sick one by his bloody butthole (sorry, but true). And our job is to try to cut that one out of the herd. Now, you must know that I don't like Money to get above an amble. We're good moseying along. I have no desire to trot, lope, or heaven help us-- run. So we're walking behind this herd, pushing them along, (yes, just like the movies).

But cattle seem to get a little bit stirred up at times and they don't go the way you want them too. But remember, I am thinking like a cow. Nothing could go wrong, right? Well, it doesn't. We do pretty good.   Here's the little guy getting some medicine.  Yes, it's dark by now, because it took us all day.  I think Jason slowed me down a bit.

We gathered the bulls, we attempted to gather the bulls, before dark.  Things were going okay, I actually trotted a bit and sort of, kind of got into a rhythm. We almost had these bulls where we wanted them to go, when one 2000 lb bully decided he was ready to fight.  There was some pushing, shoving, and headbutting, followed by a small stampede, and then the smaller of the two bulls went airborne, double flipped over the barbed wire fence, and landed in a different pasture.  I sat there atop my trusty mount, hands over my eyes, peeking through my fingers as Jason chased down the bull, expletives flying through the pasture.  We got him though.  That bull didn't have anything on us.

Needless to say, Jason could've done all this by himself in about an hour, but instead brought me along for the experience.  And I am home with some shot nerves, a sore saddle, and some real ranch dressing on my boots.