Baxter Black

Yer not gonna keep ’er, still, are ya Dad?
She must be twelve years old.

I reckon she’s closer to fourteen now,
And naturally half-polled.

It’s fall on the cow outfit.

Time to get out the WD-40 and grease up the handles on the squeeze chute. Maybe find the three or four syringes that work, buy some new gaskets and barrels along with a box of needles.

This is my wife. She does the books.
I do the important stuff,
Like mend the fence and check the cows.
She makes sure the income’s enough

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.