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Baxter Black

Baxter Black is a cowboy poet, author, vaquero philosophizer, left-handed roper and former large animal veterinarian.

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“By gosh, that’s a new twist,” thought Terry as he tightened his collar against the biting wind and stared at the heifer. She was trying to calve standing up. He eased up on her and dropped a loop over the horns.

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I like a pickup that looks like a truck
And not like a tropical fish.
Or a two-ton poodle with running lights
Or a mutant frog on a leash.

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I stood with George, ears perked, eyes alert, like border collies waiting for the signal. John (we’ll call him John) finally made his momentous decision known: “We’ll do a C-section. But I want pictures for my scrapbook!”

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The little kid sat on his knee
And looked up with stars in his eyes
He said, “Granddaddy, tell me again
How it was when you were my size.”

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1. Lying flat on my back in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency in Phoenix at 2 a.m. I passed the carafe of chablis to my reclining colleague, who looked at me and said, “Pardner, I don’t think you’re executive material.”

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The dragonslayer injured saving the damsel. The concerned female dabbin’ peroxide in the bullet wound creasing your shoulder. ‘It’s nuthin’,’ you’d say, wincing in pain. If only you had a saber slash across the cheek.

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