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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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When you hear cowboys tellin’ stories, it’s common for a listener to say, “It’s a wonder you weren’t killed.”

“Well, all I did was rope that sorry, no good, fightin’ bull with the crooked horn and tie him to a post in the corral, then throw another rope on him and tied it to the other side, then pulled him tight ’cause I was by myself, you know.

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I have been a travelin’ man a good part of my life. Most of my speakin’ jobs are Friday and Saturday nights, so Sunday means I’m usually on the road and headed home.

For me, Sunday morning on the road is a good part of bein’ me. Nine times out of 10 I’m in a rent car drivin’ to an airport where I board a flight to a major hub where I connect to another flight that gets me within an hour of bein’ home.

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Sometimes, when we go to our livestock meetings and see all the technology, we forget about the cowboy and the horse.

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It was just another camping trip with friends. A gathering, a return to nature, to get a taste of what life was like in the Wyoming forests and plains before Napoleon Bonaparte sold it to Thomas Jefferson in 1803.

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Rarely do I hear a bad mule story, especially in conversations comparing mules to horses. Mules are held up most often as having common sense, calmness in a wreck, not having a sense of humor, and sleight of hand (or hoof) tricks.

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It was a Colorado winter afternoon when the boys spotted a big cross-bred cow wobblin’ along with her calf trailing behind and a prolapse as big as an army-issue duffle bag.

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