Stickhorses and Dustbunnies

After my last great attempt at horse riding, Adventures in Cowboying,
 I decided I needed some spurs.  Jason said I needed to learn how to ride first. 

If you are any kind of a real cowboy, stop reading right here and go rope a goat or something, this will not impress you one iota.  But if you are like me, a dude who doesn't know the difference between a halter and a bridle, continue reading and be impressed.
Be very impressed.

I just want you to know, I have absolutely no business with these.  My darling husband, whose desire is to fulfill my every whim, bought these for me, yes even though he knew I had no business with them.  That's just how he is.  They're cheapies.  I wouldn't have known, but he felt the need to tell me.  It didn't damper my enthusiasm.

Cheap or not, they still poke a horse, which I found out after trying them out with the trusty mount, Money.

Wearing these things got this horse's attention and scared my socks off.  As soon as I dismounted, I took those bad boys off with the ninja quickness.  Translation:  they were removed at an accelarated rate.  

 

On a good note, I found a horse.  He's just perfect for me.  Not a bit snorty.  And I don't think he'll mind my spurs too much.

My other pets are the dust bunnies under the bed.

Just keeping it real,

Angel

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.

Till the cows come home

I don't think cows are too smart, but what do I know.
I have noticed, however, like any animal, when it comes to eating, they pay attention.    
Cows do recognize the feed wagon.  I can pull through a pasture in my vehicle, which is not the feed wagon, and they casually look up at me, give me the once over, and get back to eating.  When Jason rumbles in there, their ears perk up and they start a'comin.

 Jason is a good cowboy. He makes sure they get fed. He makes sure they're all accounted for. He checks for runny noses and other ailments.  He has a siren on his truck.  They can hear him if they're too far away and can't see him. When they hear the siren sound, they come a'trottin.  Now, if he's being very impatient, he'll drop a load or two of cake (that's cow food for you dudes out there). When they hear the door to the cake feeder slam, they come a'runnin.  Most don't dawdle when it's supper time. 

They get there and wait for their groceries. 

Some stare at you.

Feed me now!!

Some beller at you.

MOO!!!

Today he was south of town feeding some steers.  He rumbled through the gate and spotted them.  He blew his siren, they took notice, and came a comin'.  And right there, right in the smack dab middle of the herd,  mingling amongst all the steers, were two goats! 

Goats!! 
Red goats!!! 
Red goats with little nub horns!!!!
They must've been cows in their former lives because they got in the cake line and helped themselves.  Most of the bovines ignored them and went about their business eating. But a few calves did not appreciate these welfare cases.  They head butted over cake.  Not sure where these univited guests journeyed from.  I asked Jason to get me a picture if he can.  Until then, here is a very tame cow eating a piece of cake from Jason's hand.

This is a cake line.  Jason has to drive past, count, and eyeball them before they finish eating and scatter.

Yes, this is where your hamburger comes from.  Enjoy!