Cowboy poet and veterinarian Baxter Black writes about the ranching life in his column "On the Edge of Common Sense." (www.baxterblack.com)
I had just finished loading 184 seven-foot steel T-posts, old ones, by the way, in my pickup and was unloading a mere 24 bales of hay from the front section of my gooseneck stock trailer.
It was a hot, humid afternoon in early fall when the dead branches begin to stick out of the cottonwood greenery, and the garden starts goin’ to heck and no one cares. I could almost smell the cumin from Ramon’s #6 Combination Plate being distilled in my sweat from lunch earlier.
Then I saw the blue box. The dreaded blue box. It was still in the stock trailer. It needed to be moved.
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