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When I was little, I wanted to be a cowboy. Of course, not being a boy and not having any cows put a damper on that. Regardless, I did have ponies and horses, and I occasionally practiced my roping skills on anything that moved (horses, goats, chickens, dogs, etc.) with a jury-rigged skipping rope/baling twine lariat. I sucked at it, and the animals were clever enough to duck their heads.
By the time I was twelve years old, I was living in cattle country. It wasn't unusual to see a dust-covered cowboy riding into town on a Quarterhorse. Indeed, it was a city bylaw that all hotels must have hitching posts. I worked with my Mom at a horse ranch, shovelling shit and grooming horses. Most of my schoolmates were the children of ranchers and ranch hands. I sometimes went to visit my sister's friend Kristine who lived way out in the boonies on a Shorthorn and Charolais ranch. Shorthorns looked like plain old red cows, but Charolais were new to me. They are big, beautiful blondes.
One day, Kristine asked me to go down to the bullpen with her to water the bulls. We were both scrawny girls, and these cattle were enormous. Their necks alone were bigger than the two of us strapped together. We each carried two big buckets of water, our shoulders nearly dislocating from the strain. We dumped the water into the trough, and the bulls slowly lumbered their ways over to drink.
Kristine told me that if any of them shook their heads or started to play, we were to leave immediately. The week before, one of the bulls playfully nudged the head of another, knocking a horn off. The bull bled to death from the injury.
Kristine also told me they lost another cow a few weeks previously when it strayed too close to the edge of a cliff. The ground gave way and the cow snapped her neck in the fall, leaving behind an orphaned calf.
I watched the bulls, and they looked at me with huge, placid eyes and a steady grinding of their teeth. Occasionally, they shifted from one side to the other, and their enormous testicles swayed with the movement. I couldn't imagine these guys playing. I could barely imagine them moving at any speed above a crawl. But I'd seen rodeos on tv, so I knew their capabilities.
My nextdoor neighbour was a retired bronco rider, bull rider, and rodeo clown. He'd told me plenty of stories of mean bulls and broken bones.
When Kristine and I finished bringing water to the bulls, she doubled up with me on her cutting horse, Beaver. We clattered around the rocky countryside at full tilt, dodging the sagebrush and tumbleweeds. Every now and then without warning, Beaver pulled a 180. I laughed and whooped, and never fell off.
I'd have felt more like a real cowboy if I'd only had a Stetson.
By the time I was twelve years old, I was living in cattle country. It wasn't unusual to see a dust-covered cowboy riding into town on a Quarterhorse. Indeed, it was a city bylaw that all hotels must have hitching posts. I worked with my Mom at a horse ranch, shovelling shit and grooming horses. Most of my schoolmates were the children of ranchers and ranch hands. I sometimes went to visit my sister's friend Kristine who lived way out in the boonies on a Shorthorn and Charolais ranch. Shorthorns looked like plain old red cows, but Charolais were new to me. They are big, beautiful blondes.
One day, Kristine asked me to go down to the bullpen with her to water the bulls. We were both scrawny girls, and these cattle were enormous. Their necks alone were bigger than the two of us strapped together. We each carried two big buckets of water, our shoulders nearly dislocating from the strain. We dumped the water into the trough, and the bulls slowly lumbered their ways over to drink.
Kristine told me that if any of them shook their heads or started to play, we were to leave immediately. The week before, one of the bulls playfully nudged the head of another, knocking a horn off. The bull bled to death from the injury.
Kristine also told me they lost another cow a few weeks previously when it strayed too close to the edge of a cliff. The ground gave way and the cow snapped her neck in the fall, leaving behind an orphaned calf.
I watched the bulls, and they looked at me with huge, placid eyes and a steady grinding of their teeth. Occasionally, they shifted from one side to the other, and their enormous testicles swayed with the movement. I couldn't imagine these guys playing. I could barely imagine them moving at any speed above a crawl. But I'd seen rodeos on tv, so I knew their capabilities.
My nextdoor neighbour was a retired bronco rider, bull rider, and rodeo clown. He'd told me plenty of stories of mean bulls and broken bones.
When Kristine and I finished bringing water to the bulls, she doubled up with me on her cutting horse, Beaver. We clattered around the rocky countryside at full tilt, dodging the sagebrush and tumbleweeds. Every now and then without warning, Beaver pulled a 180. I laughed and whooped, and never fell off.
I'd have felt more like a real cowboy if I'd only had a Stetson.
