Baxter Black

Talk about takin’ a beating.

I stood on the porch at Dale’s horse farm and soaked up the view. It was deep springtime in west Tennessee. The grass was so green it hurt your eyes.

It’s funny how the world goes around. Francisco and I were checking cows, making a big circle early in the morning to beat the heat. It’s peaceful out there.

Let’s put in a good word for the feedlot cowboy. That group of fellers who meet every mornin’ early at the horse barn, saddle up, get their instructions and ride off down the alley.

It was a fairly nice day for Cut Bank in early April. A little breeze blowin’ off the reservation, the sun about the color of skimmed milk and the creek startin’ to show the runoff.

To supplement farm income, some get their wives jobs in town. Others expand their hobbies (i.e., making saddles, braiding horsehair or running for county commissioner). Some, in desperation, get a real estate license.

I read somewhere the average “practice life span” of a large-animal vet is eight years. After they quit L.A. practice, they go into small-animal practice, government work, industry, university, research or some other less hazardous profession.