Baxter Black

I have known and worked with many women in the feedlot business. Some as cowboys, some as vets, some as lay doctors, as cattle processors, feed truck drivers, foremen (or forepersons) and managers (or should that be womanagers?).

It was impossible to predict which direction my ball would go. By the third hole, we’d traded our golf cart in for an all-terrain vehicle and the rest of our foursome was driving an armored personnel carrier.

It could only happen to a cowboy.

Thurman had established himself as a figure of some note in the Corriente Association.

“Hey buddy, maybe you’ll rope better after your horse foals. Ha ha!”

In the midst of Covid-19, one of the deepest psychoses is loneliness. “Social distance,” sliding takeout tacos under the door, being served pizza across the counter like a Frisbee, having to carry a measuring tape and whip it out like Marshall Dillon to confirm 6 feet every time some masked stranger comes your way … all to prevent civil discourse and staying friends.

“Here we are, friends, on the Serengeti Plains in the wilds of Serengeti.” As the crowd leans in closer to the television we see the swaying baobab trees ... an endless sea of grass waving off into the horizon.