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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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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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“Roy, can you show us the scar? It’s gotta be a big one!”

“What scar?”

“Where they took your conscience out!”

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Meatless Monday … what kind of person would think something like that up? The same kind of people who would support Breathless Tuesday, Whistle-less Wednesday or Jalapeño-less Cinco de Mayo?

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