Lee Pitts

One of the things a good cowman has to have, besides a good banker, is an early detection system for determining when an animal is sick.

My wonderful wife is the picture of perfect health, with only one known ailment: She suffers from what is known in the medical community as “white coat syndrome.”

High tech has destroyed businesses, turned Main Street into a ghost town and driven your FedEx and UPS delivery person to sheer exhaustion. Forget the mall; Americans are shopping on their cellphones.

I’m proud to say I was a vocational student, even though the rest of my high school looked down on us, and we were quarantined far from the regular campus.

There’s a fad occurring in the Western world I’d like to encourage. Ranch people are naming their kids with rodeo-inspired words. I’m not talking about names like Freckles, Ote, Tibbs, Ty, Tuff, Trevor, Tomkins, Luke, Lane, Beaver, Monty, Mahan, Shoulders, Charmayne, Ace, Jake or Walt.

Hi ladies, it’s me: the wife of the slob who usually writes this column. He’s resting now, getting his beauty sleep – and believe me, he needs all he can get. Unbeknownst to him, I’m taking over the column this week because what I have to say is much more important than any gibberish he’d have written.