Monday, September 29, 2008

Mustangs and Marriage

The way to marital bliss is long and tortuous for many of us men. The language of love that our women speak comes from outer space and we often stumble through life learning a word here, a gesture there, and a phrase or two along the way.

My good brother Mike, for example, kept telling his wife that her favorite horse was a worthless bronc. Hey, what else can you say about a 3 year old Mustang that she rescued from the BLM. It was gentled enough to handle, but who wants to risk their life trying to ride the thing, since no one has ever even tried? Why couldn't she see his concern for their safety? So, with the high price of hay and all, why not sell her to the Elmer's Glue people and be done with it? It just makes perfect sense.

He was wearing out the couch, which is a side effect of sleeping on it. And if that isn't bad enough, the sting of wondering what he said wrong that felt so right, was pure puzzlement.

I dunno Mike. Why don't you bring that widow-maker over and lets mess around with her a little? Whoa... looky there, picture proof of the potential your wife kept insisting was there. That horse is no killer! Riding Allie for your wife was a little phraseology in the pure mother tongue-of-love. Now repeat it over and over so you don't forget how to say that you are all rested up from sleeping on a REAL mattress!

Pics of Mike on Allie's virginal ride, Saturday--these are the real deal:

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Cotton Rosser: Cruel?

True Story: This scene was witnessed by my friend Glen Bundy at the Dixie Roundup a few years ago.

Big strapping Bulldogger asks gently-- "Why ya' protesting the rodeo, son?"

PETA Protester responds with shrill confidence-- "Rodeo is cruel and inhumane to animals!"

Bulldogger, completely flumoxed-- "Well son, it was cruel and inhumane the day your momma had you, but she did it anyway, didn't she?"

I woke up to this headline about Cotton Rosser in the Deseret News after the Ute Stampede in Nephi one July morning: Rodeo contractor is accused of cruelty . There will never be a shortage of kooks in this world. Unfortunately, the animal welfare movement has been hijacked by the most frayed ends of the fringes. They often create more abuse than they stop on several different levels. Take for example the current despair in the horse market. The recent banning of horse slaughter in the U.S. has eliminated one viable outlet for horses that have outlived their usefulness, and it came at the climax of other pressures like soaring property, energy, and hay costs. Now, the horse rescues are full and begging for hay; the horses that do see slaughter are enduring horrific conditions during transport to Mexico or Canada; the BLM is seeing the illegal abandonment of horses on public land; and more and more horses are found starving and neglected on farms that can no longer afford to keep up with the spiraling cost of feeding them. UPDATE: Speaking of KOOKS, here is another example of the unintended consequences and moral bankruptcy of these groups in my local evening news.

Rodeo. The greatest show on of the most patriotic pieces of Americana in the sporting world, happens to be about the cushiest job most livestock could ever hope to have. They work mere seconds at a time, a couple of times a week during the Rodeo season. They live long and prosperous lives. Rodeo cowboys on the other hand, use themselves up chasing the dream. Its a grand spectacle.

This week we celebrated the heady goodness of Rodeo with family and friends at the Dixie Roundup. Centered around our livestock, we paraded, and pranced across town and around the old Sunbowl as part of the pre-show Grand Entry. I sure ejoyed sharing it with my sisters who I rarely see, my parents who just got home from a mission in Alaska, and one of my employees whose family was seeing it for the first time through New Hampshire eyes. Kayla, you were cute on that long-eared horse!

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

How to Pick Your Friends

A unique friendship bloomed out on the ranch this summer. The calf that was born on Doc's due date has taken a real shine to him. The calf free-ranges around the place, slipping in and out of her mother's corral with ease. Lately, the calf spends an unusual amount of time next to Doc's stall playing footsie and nosie with him.
When we let Doc out of his stall, the two of them chase each other like new puppies. They tear up one side and down the other at breakneck speed.

It must be his magnetic personality. The dogs think Doc makes a pretty cool mate too. Why do we forget how to play when we grow up?