Many years ago Paul Rosa of Colorado Springs wrote a brilliant book called Idiot Letters – One Man’s Relentless Assault on Corporate America. I use the word brilliant because not only did Paul Rosa manage to compose hysterically funny letters; he passed them off as being serious inquiries or complaints to dozens of companies in the U.S., in addition to writing a “how to” book for true idiots.
Continue Reading Add comment July 22nd, 2009
Exclusive to the Aspen Post
By Sue Gray
According to Aspen Post immigration expert Frosty Wooldridge, the effects of overpopulation: “water shortages, climate destabilization, energy crisis, destroyed oceans, air pollution, species extinction and worse,” pose an impending threat to human civilization. The solution he proposes is that we halt all immigration to the U.S.
Frosty believes that as long as America stabilizes its population and remains culturally pure, it will all be ok, here at least, and really, who cares about the rest of the world anyway? If we can just keep everyone else from crossing our borders, we’ll have enough resources and cultural integrity to enable real Americans to survive a global calamity.
Continue Reading 1 comment July 22nd, 2009
With all the numbers spewed by pollsters—if you have to spew, spew here—it is all too tempting to pick out a few choice morsels and yuk until you upchuck. These pre-selected numbers show no confusion in conservatism whatsoever—and a core audience ready to frog-march in militant, military formation toward a future that looks all too much like those good old days that never were.
I have in mind three numbers that tell the tale like no others: (1) conservatives who believe see-you-later, soon-to-be former Alaska Governor Sarah Palin is a credible Republican figure; (2) conservatives who believe climate change is a load of hooey if not an outright hoax; (3) conservatives who believe comedian Stephen Colbert is not joking on “The Colbert Report” on Comedy Central.
Continue Reading 4 comments July 14th, 2009
Rover ran across the meadow toward the bison as fast as his short legs would take him. Wolfy, longer and leaner, raced past the pudgy pooch and charged in to the herd, scattering several cows and their calves. The two dogs circled a group of three cows who immediately took up a defensive position, backing their butts up against each other and lowering their horned heads against the attack. Rover uttered a frenzied series of barks, and ran around and around the cows.
A bull snorted and scraped his hoof on the ground. Wolfy heard the pounding of hooves behind him and turned to see the bull galloping straight at him, its bulky head lowered, horns ready to toss the dog into the air. Wolfy dodged the bull just in time but turned to see another bull taking up the charge. He leapt to the side and the bull rushed past.
“Wolfy NO!” Connie yelled across the meadow as she and Walker emerged from the trees into the clearing. The horses balked at the sight of the bison and Tanker reared up. Connie held tight and pulled the reins in close. She yelled again, “Come Wolfy.” The dog stopped and looked in her direction. He looked back at the bison and at Rover circling frantically, then at Connie and back at the bison again. Finally the dog obeyed, slinking back to stand moping by Connie’s mare, while Rover continued his manic attack.
Continue Reading 1 comment January 4th, 2009
CHAPTER 11
Clowers rose early and flew off toward the sunrise, then began a long spiral pattern around the area, scanning for pursuing Ranchers or any sign of predators. Leading a calf alone into the wilderness was turning in to a full time job. He missed his free and easy lifestyle, soaring over his vast territory and now and then hanging out with his buddies. Maybe he should’ve thought it through a little better.
A few miles west of where he’d left the calf, the raven cleared the top of a hill and looked down into a large flat clearing with a stream running through it. A small band of bison were gathered in the meadow. Some of the shaggy brown cows were rolling in the dirt wallows they’d created to rid themselves of pesky insects. Dust rose up around them as they squirmed in the shallow depressions. The rest of the cows and several bulls were walking slowly with their large heavy heads moving from side to side as they grazed. A few calves chased each other around the grassy meadow, their short red fur shining in the morning sunlight. Wait a minute! Clowers had an idea. He straightened his path and flew back to where Mark waited under the trees.
Continue Reading Add comment December 28th, 2008
CHAPTER 8
Rum Feldon sat behind the wheel of his black Yukon Denali parked in front of the gate at Bar W’s pasture. He lifted his cell phone and punched in Kerry Johnson’s number.
“I’m sittin in front of the pasture, and I’m not seeing that calf anywhere” he told the Bar W foreman.
Johnson replied, “Hey it’s gotta be there, Howe and I just saw it yesterday.”
“Well it’s not here now, believe me.”
“I’ll be right there” Johnson told him. He jumped into his truck and sped over to where Feldon sat waiting. They both got out of their vehicles. Feldon handed him the binoculars he’d been using to scan the pasture. Johnson completed a study of the area, handed the glasses back to Rum and said, “Can’t understand it, there’s no break in the fence anywhere. You don’t suppose it jumped?”
“Might’ve”
“Guess you’ve got a breecher then, want some help rounding him up?”
“No, I’ll get a couple of my guys on it” Rum replied.
Johnson nodded and returned to his vehicle.
Rum walked over to his truck and was putting his binoculars away when a load of bird shit landed on the shiny black hood. “Dammit!” he yelled and looked up to see a raven flying off toward the hills cackling, “Haw Haw Haw!”
CHAPTER 9
Mark had been walking through the brambly sage and juniper bushes since late last night after Clowers had lifted the rope off the gatepost and let him out of the pasture. Following the raven’s instructions, he kept to the path of the moon and sun. Clowers had warned him that the Ranchers would come after him. His best bet the raven had said, would be to get some distance between himself and the ranch, head in to the high country where the trees would conceal him. He didn’t even stop to eat, just tore off mouthfuls of grass along the way. By mid-afternoon he’d made it across the sagebrush strewn high desert and was nearing the forested foothills. He stopped to drink from a small stream, crossed it and walked into the cover of the pine trees, leaving a trail of hoof prints in the mud.
The shrubs and trees became denser and taller the farther up Mark traveled. It was rough going and several times he had to double back and find another way. When he came to a thin dirt trail meandering up the mountain that seemed to take him in the general direction of the sun’s path, he followed it. He was moving lazily with his head down, feeling hungry and tired when he caught a glimpse of something ahead on the trail. He stopped, raised his head and stared hard for a moment before he realized there was an animal standing only a few tail lengths in front of him. It was tall and slender like a horse, but it was hard to see because its light brown fur blended in with the background and something like tree branches grew out of the top of its head. It held very still, observing him with large round eyes.
“Hello” Mark said and took a small step forward.
The buck turned and bounded away with a swiftness and agility Mark had never seen in any cow or calf. Gosh, I hope I didn’t offend him, Mark thought. He was disappointed that he’d missed his first opportunity to meet a wild animal.
Mark headed up the trail and reached the top of a ridge just as the sun was setting. The trail continued through the trees along the ridge to the north. It would be easy walking, but would take him in the wrong direction. He looked to the west, where the sun dipped below the top of another ridge. In between, the forest was thick with trees choked by dry undergrowth. Mark sighed and started picking his way down the slope through the heavily wooded terrain.
Clowers glided over the calf and landed in a nearby pine tree.
“You’ll want to find a safe place for the night,” the raven advised him.
Suddenly, Mark remembered his mother’s warning about the dangers of the wilderness.
“What do I need to be safe from?” he asked.
Clowers turned his head and preened his tail feathers with his beak.
“Predators” came the muffled reply.
“What’s a predator?”
Clowers stopped preening, faced the calf and said, “Animals that’ll want to make a meal of you…wolves, grizzly bears, mountain lions. They generally hunt at night.”
The raven bent his neck, stretched out his left wing and began smoothing out the underside with his beak. Mark’s eyes grew large as he realized the implications of the raven’s words. Animals. Meal. Hunt…hunting…him. Eating…him. He crumpled to his knees and moaned.
“Hey take it easy there fella.”
Clowers flew down and landed on the ground in front of Mark.
“Maybe you better eat something.”
“Uh thanks, but I don’t feel much like eating right now. I’m a little worried about being eaten. Why didn’t you ever tell me about predators?”
Clowers looked annoyed, took a few steps away from the calf, then turned and said, “For pete’s sake, you never asked. Besides, I just figured you understood the risk. If safety is so important, you should’ve stayed in the pasture.”
“Maybe I would’ve if I’d known about the predators” Mark shouted back.
“Oh really?” Clowers glared at him.
Mark was silent for a moment, remembering the burning curiosity that drove him to go beyond the fence. The lure of seeing what was Out There had been irresistible.
“No I guess not,” Mark conceded.
“Mmm hmm,” the bird said, “now just calm down and listen to me, you’ll be all right. Go stand next to that outcropping of rocks. There’s some grass you can eat. I’ll fly around the area and make sure it’s clear. Stay there until I get back.”
The bird flew away and Mark ambled over to the rocks. After he’d eaten a few mouthfuls of grass his fear subsided, his head cleared, and he considered his dilemma. His mother had warned him about the danger beyond the fence, and the raven had just confirmed it. Now he had to make a choice between remaining free with the risk of being killed by a predator or returning to the pasture where the Ranchers would keep him safe. So far, the wilderness had not lived up to his expectations. Still, he hoped to meet some of the wild animals Clowers had mentioned, other than predators of course.
Mark moved toward the base of the rock wall to nibble some tender green sprouts. A sudden dry rattling sound came from above his left ear. Mark stepped back and surveyed the jumble of multi-colored stone, trying to locate the source of the sound.
On a rock ledge a few feet from the ground, he saw a circle of scaly flesh. At the edge of the circle a bumpy tail vibrated, making the sound that had caught Mark’s attention. From the center, a flat earless head emerged. A slender forked tongue flicked in and out of its mouth. Mark was mesmerized by the odd circular animal. He took a step closer.
Clowers swooped from the sky and dove between the calf and the snake yelling, “Mark back away! Back away NOW!” Mark quickly scrambled into the trees as the raven made a dive at the snake. The reptile’s head lunged forward and Clowers pulled up just in time to avoid its snapping jaws. The snake coiled again and readied itself for another strike, but the raven didn’t give it the chance. He flew to the tree where Mark was hiding, watching the action.
“That was close,” Clowers said.
“What is it?” Mark asked.
“Snake” Clowers spit the word in disgust.
“You said I needed to watch out for wolves and bears and lions. You didn’t say anything about snakes.”
“Haw Haw, forgot about snakes” said Clowers.
“Anything ELSE I should know about?” Mark looked up at Clowers with narrowed eyes.
The raven lifted a wing and dipped the feathered tip in the air four times, “Wolves, bears, lions…snakes…yep that’s it.”
“That’s it huh? You’re sure now. That’s it?”
“Oh knock it off. You’re ok aren’t you?” Clowers replied, “No thanks to instinct. Most animals know to stay away when they hear the sound of a rattlesnake, and cattle are naturally afraid of almost everything, but not you. Your curiosity is going to get you in trouble.”
Clowers was starting to regret opening that dang gate for this ungrateful calf. But since he was responsible for letting him loose, he was going to have to figure out a way to keep him from harm. Otherwise Mark might as well go on back to the ranch and face castration.
“Let’s get something to eat and find a place to spend the night” Clowers said.
Mark nodded and followed the raven in to the forest. The animals he’d met so far hadn’t been very friendly, but this day had been more exciting than any he’d spent in the unremarkable confines of the pasture. He wasn’t ready to give up on the wilderness just yet.
CHAPTER 10
Feldon left the Bar W and arrived back at the Casablanca to find Walker returning a chainsaw and goggles to the tool shed.
“What’s up?” Feldon said.
“Oh hey there Rummy, just clearing some brush,” Walker replied, “You know, I thought I’d help out with some of the work around here, since there doesn’t seem to be much for me to do. Startin to feel more like a vacation than a job, heh, heh”
Feldon was skeptical. For the life of him he couldn’t think of any brush on the property that needed clearing. Sounded like Walker was making excuses to play cowboy again. So let’s see how he’d take to some real work.
“Well as a matter of fact,” Feldon said, “I’ve got a prime assignment for you. I want you and Connie to go after a stray that’s loose in the hills above Bar W. That dog of yours any good at tracking?”
“Oh sure. There was this one time when…”
“Tomorrow morning early, grab your gear and meet Connie at the stable.”
“I can be ready at the whim of a hat. Uh, will someone have my horse saddled up?” Walker asked.
“I’ll tell Colwell.” Feldon said over his shoulder as he walked to his office. This is perfect, he thought. Powers would be holding a meeting of his Energy Task Force at the Casablanca tomorrow. Rum had been wondering how he was going to keep Walker from nosing around.
An hour after sunrise Connie and Walker rode across the back pasture and through the gate separating Casablanca’s property from the adjoining Bar W grazing land. Walker rode the black gelding, Coattails as usual. Connie was on a small roan mare named Tanker. Wolfy and Rover ran ahead of the horses sniffing their way from bush to bush and stopping now and then to explore a prairie dog hole.
When Rover saw the cattle grazing at the north end of the pasture, he barked and took off toward the herd. Wolfy raced after him. Rover ran straight up to the heels of one of the cows and nipped hard. The cow yelled and swung its back end away from the dog, but Rover ran around behind and nipped again and then again. The rest of the cattle scattered to get away from the aggressive dog. All of the activity excited Wolfy and he started barking and chasing the cows too. Now the whole herd was agitated and emitting sounds of fear and alarm.
“Hey would you call your dog off?” Connie said as they approached the chaotic scene.
“Aw he’s just havin some fun” Walker said, “He’s a real cowdog ain’t he?”
“Actually,” Connie said, “the dogs aren’t supposed to worry the cattle that way. Makes them skitterish and hard to handle when there’s a real task to be done.” She yelled out to Wolfy to heel, and the dog obeyed.
Walker called, “Rovey heel,” knowing full well that that the dog had never heard those words before and wouldn’t comply. He chuckled and said, “Guess he’s busy right now, he’ll come along in a minute or two.”
Connie frowned and kicked her horse into a trot. They left the pasture through the back gate and threaded their horses through the thick sage. To the left and right of the trail, towering red rock hoodoos marked the entrance to the Absaroka range of the Rocky Mountains.
“They look like big dicks, heh heh,” Walker said and gave Connie a wink.
She quickly looked away from the phallic rocks.
“We’d better hurry up or we’ll be camping tonight,” she said.
They’d prepared for that possibility; their saddlebags held tents, food and cooking gear, and they each had a bedroll strapped to the rear of their saddles, but Connie was hoping to avoid spending the night with Walker. She didn’t much care for his crass humor or his tedious self-promotion.
While Rover meandered around looking for something to kill, Wolfy sniffed out the trail of the calf. Even where there were no apparent hoofprints, the dog’s keen smell kept him on track. By noon they’d reached the top of a ridge where the calf had apparently left the dirt deer path he’d been following and headed west through the forest. A little while later they came to a rock outcropping where Wolfy ran around in circles whining.
Connie swung her leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground. She knelt down, examining the faint imprint of hooves in the dirt.
“The calf was here all right,” she said.
Wolfy left the tracks and ran to the base of the rocks. He was joined by Rover. The two dogs sniffed the dirt, now and then glancing up at the rock face and whining.
“Something sure has got their attention,” Walker said. He leaned onto the saddlehorn and peered up at the rock face, trying to figure out what the dogs were so excited about.
“Come on, this way,” Connie said as she mounted her horse and guided Tanker into the trees.
“Kinda hot out here Rice-a-roni. Ain’t it about time for a nap?” Walker said, eyeing the grassy ground in the shade of the rocks.
Connie cringed. Why did he insist on calling everyone by cutsie nicknames? He’d laughed loudly when they’d been introduced. “Pilaf!” he’d exclaimed, “like the rice?” Ever since then he’d called her Rice-a-roni.
“I think we should keep going, that calf can’t be too far now. We could still get back to the ranch by nightfall.” She whistled to Wolfy, who trotted ahead and picked up the scent of the calf. Walker reluctantly lifted the reins, turned Coattails away from the perfectly good rest area and followed Connie into the forest.
Add comment December 21st, 2008
CHAPTER 4
DC Powers backed his Cadillac out of the driveway and waved to his wife standing on the porch. She rarely went with him on his trips to the Casablanca, preferring to stay at their 9,000 square foot luxury home on the outskirts of Cody. Serving his second term as a Wyoming Senator, he rarely got a chance to visit the ranch located in the rugged scrub country just east of the Yellowstone National Park border. He trusted the men who ran things for him; Rum Feldon, Abe Elliot, Rich Oyster, and even that colored woman Pilaf. They were all capable enough of carrying out the agenda, but he still liked to check on things himself once in a while. Besides, it gave him a chance to visit his other interests.
A few miles west of Wapiti he pulled off the main highway onto a dirt road and drove past a series of squat tanks and vertical pipes, all painted sand beige in an attempt to camouflage the natural gas extraction equipment.
Powers headed for a large white portable trailer serving as an office. Her red Hummer was parked outside. He pulled up, hit the horn a quick one. The door of the trailer opened and Holly appeared on the stair landing, waved, then turned and locked the door. She stopped at her car and pulled a suitcase out of the trunk. Powers got out and took the bag from her, threw it in his trunk and opened the passenger door. He gave her a crooked smile and she kissed his jowly cheek before slipping in to the front seat.
They made an odd looking pair, she was young, tall, glowing with a rich tan, her pretty face framed by long straight golden hair. He was shorter, heavyset, pale, what little hair he had left was white. But the relationship was more than just physical. The impending introduction of his energy bill to the state legislature would give Holly the opportunity to expand her Burton Fuel empire. In return, she bought all of her equipment from CarlCorp, in which Powers was a major stockholder.
DC turned into the long driveway leading to the Casablanca and pulled up in front of the main house, a long rectangular two story with white siding and a gray shingled roof. A wide planked porch running the length of the building was furnished with several wooden chairs and benches. Shading the porch, a shed roof was held up by eight slender round posts. A set of stairs led to the main double door in the center and there were two smaller doors at either end of the building that gave access to the east and west wings of the house.
Rum Feldon heard the car in the driveway and looked out the window. He knew Powers didn’t like to be bothered with ranch business until he’d taken care of the business sitting beside him in the front seat. He was about to get back to work when he saw Walker come sauntering out of the house, heading toward Powers’ car. Good grief, thought Feldon, I forgot to warn that yahoo about this situation.
Powers got out of the car and went around to open the passenger door, but Walker intercepted him.
“Howdy” he said and thrust his hand out. “Welcome to the Casablanca Ranch, I’m Walker, what can I do for you?”
Powers stared a moment at the duded up spectacle in front of him.
“Ah yeah Walker, DC Powers,” he took Walker’s hand, gave it a brief pump and dropped it.
“Oh, heh heh, yeah, hi, uh Mr. Powers, uh DC…been awhile, I didn’t recognize you,” Walker’s stammering was interrupted by Rum Feldon calling from the door of his office, “Walker! I need to talk to you.”
Powers had turned his back and was escorting a woman from the front seat of his car, so Walker strolled over to Feldon’s office. He opened the door and walked in, took a chair facing Feldon and said casually, “You wanted to see me Rummy?”
Feldon’s perpetually sour expression had a particularly grim tight jawed look at the moment. The way his gray hair was slicked back over the top of his head made him appear even more severe. He took off his wire rimmed glasses and eyed the man in front of him, then said, “Walker, when the boss visits the ranch we let him come to us.”
“Yeah, I didn’t, I was just…” Walker sputtered.
Feldon cut him off, “He’ll get around to seeking us out when he’s ready. Give him some room.”
“Yeah sure, no problem, heh heh, I get it. The lady, she ain’t his wife right?” Walker winked.
Feldon suppressed the urge to choke him, “Right. You got the picture now so next time…”
“Oh yeah, I got it, give the boss some room, let him do some settlin’ in. I got it.”
“Good. That’s all then” Feldon said, indicating it was time for Walker to leave.
As soon as Walker was out the door, the phone rang. It was Connie Pilaf, “I saw the car. Is she here?”
“Yeah” Feldon answered.
“OK then, I’ll order up some dinner for them. Two hours?”
“Yeah sounds about right” Feldon confirmed.
Connie hung up and called the cook with the instructions, then went to make sure everything was tidy around the ranch. She ran in to Abe Elliot at the stable.
“See the boss has come for a visit” he said, “Where’s the old man now?” Abe grinned at her expectantly. Connie gave him her best fake smile, “Oh Abe, you know that right about now, DC Powers is in bed with Holly Burton.”
Walker was relaxing after dinner, watching TV in the living room of the west wing. He was hoping to catch the boss for a chat, so he kept the volume low and listened for his chance. Around 8pm Walker heard Powers leave the house by the front door. He stood up and went to the window. The boss was walking over to the foreman’s office. Feldon stepped out to meet him and the two had a brief conversation, then Feldon returned to his office, and Powers turned back toward the house.
Walker grabbed his hat, left the west wing and swaggered across the yard, acting as if he was on some important errand. Sure he’d been warned not to approach the boss, but could he help it if they happened to run into each other in the yard?
“Evening” Walker touched two fingers to the brim of his hat as he crossed Powers path.
“Evening” Powers grunted and kept right on walking.
Walker’s step faltered and slowed as he watched Powers climb the stairs and go into the house. Realizing he didn’t have anywhere to go, he snapped his fingers pretending he’d forgotten something and turned around.
Powers was standing at the kitchen door arranging tomorrow’s breakfast with the cook when Walker came in. He waited until the boss had finished, then stepped up and said; “Uh sir, Mr. Powers, could I have a moment?”
Powers hesitated then said; “Let’s go into the office.”
Walker followed him into the high ceilinged room furnished only with a red velvet couch facing a massive dark wood desk and matching chair. Bookshelves lined every wall and mounted above them were Powers hunting trophies, ranging from pheasant to the heads of various horned mammals, including a bison. Walker wasn’t sure if he should take a seat in his usual chair behind the desk or leave it for the boss. When Powers sat on the sofa, Walker took the chair.
“What is it?” Powers said.
“Well, uh, I’d kind of like to know what it is I’m supposed to be doing. I’ve been here for over three months now and all I’ve done so far is sit here at this desk a few times and sign papers. I haven’t even had a chance to read any of them. Feldon just brings them in and tells me I need to sign, so I do.”
DC pressed his thin lips together. The left side of his mouth turned up while the right remained almost motionless, making it hard for Walker to read his expression.
“That’s right, I told Feldon not to bother you with the details. Those papers are just orders for equipment and such. You see, I’ve made you the official representative of the Casablanca Ranch.”
Walker looked surprised.
“I, I’m the official representative? Not you, or Feldon?”
“No, I’m too busy politicking to be here much and Feldon’s got his hands full running the daily operations. I needed someone to handle the paperwork and make an occasional public appearance on behalf of the ranch.”
“Public appearance?” Walker’s heart raced. He was ok in a gathering of a few friends and family, in fact he could be quite charming. But whenever he’d been called upon to speak in front of a crowd of strangers, he’d gotten nervous and often made a fool of himself. Powers caught the vibe.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “it’ll just be neighbors and maybe some reporters now and then.”
“Re…reporters? Uh…”
“Just keep on doing what you’ve been doing. Feldon tells me you’re working out just fine so far.”
Walker swallowed hard. He’d thought he was going to be a cowboy. Even though he didn’t know anything about ranching, he’d seen enough Westerns to feel confident in playing the part. But public speaking, that was a different story. Still, he couldn’t admit defeat, not again. He couldn’t go back to Texas and face his father having let down DC Powers.
He managed a weak smile and said, “Thanks.”
Powers got up and reached his hand out, took Walker’s and shook it.
“Good man,” he said, “it’s getting late. I hear you like to take an early morning ride. Better get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” Walker said. He rose to go.
“Uh Walker,” DC said, “Holly Burton is a good friend of mine, but no one outside of this ranch needs to know that, right?”
“Right,” Walker grinned, “Right. Just between us, our little secret.”
“No,” Powers scowled, “not secret. Just discreet.”
“Discreet. I can be discreet. I’m as discreetish as they get.”
“Goodnight then.”
“Goodnight.”
Walker returned to his den in the west wing, kicked his boots off, turned on the TV and settled into his easy chair, just in time to catch a rerun of Rawhide on the Western channel.
At 10pm Rum Feldon quietly exited his office through the back door and headed around the east end of the main house toward the big white barn. The double doors in front were locked up for the night, so he entered through a side door at the front of the building, walked past the row of tractors and harvesters and climbed the wooden stairs to DC Powers’ small private office.
Powers sat hunched behind an antique oak desk in an oversized chair covered in burgundy leather, the edges studded with brass tacks. Rum took the tan suede wing chair to the right of the desk next to the only window. Opposite him, at either end of a brown and white cowhide sofa sat Abe Elliot and Rich Oyster, each with their bootheels resting on a leather ottoman, one arm stretched over the back of the sofa, the other dangling over the side. They look like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, thought Rum. He looked out the window. Connie Pilaf was crossing the yard. She entered the room, perched her denim clad behind on a slim spindled mahogany chair and sat with her back perfectly straight and her legs crossed at the ankles. Her hands, clasping a pen, rested on a notepad on her lap.
“Anyone seen Colwell?” Powers quacked out of the side of his mouth.
Connie raised her pen, “He’s not coming.”
“Why the hell not?”
“He said something about business in Cody.”
“Well we don’t really need him I guess,” Powers shifted his weight forward and interlaced his fingers on the desk.
“Things are gonna get a little hotter now with this energy bill in the works” Powers informed his crew. “Some of our neighbors are pretty pissed off about the possibility of drilling on public land. Not to mention those hippie treehuggers are probably going to come sniffing around. Anyone gets too close, I want you to nip it in the bud.” He looked around the room, everyone was nodding except Feldon who was peering over his shoulder out the window.
“Sir?” Connie raised the pen in front of her and flashed a nervous smile, “I’m concerned about Walker, he doesn’t seem to have much experience.”
Powers replied, “That’s the idea. He doesn’t know enough to figure out what’s going on. Keep him in the dark as much as possible. Feed him only what we want him to know and let him regurgitate it to the public. That’ll leave you all free to do your jobs.”
Feldon turned from the window with a scowl, “He’s an arrogant fool.”
Elliot and Oyster looked at each other and snickered.
“His arrogance works in our favor,” Powers countered, “If he really believes he knows what he’s talking about, others will too.”
Connie nodded and wrote something in her notebook. Powers caught Feldon’s attention and cocked his head. Feldon rose, walked over to her and gently lifted the notepad from her lap. He walked back to the desk and tossed it in the trash.
“No paper trails,” Powers explained and gave her a lopsided smile.
“Of course,” Connie replied and clicked her pen shut.
CHAPTER 5
Mark’s constant pacing around the inside perimeter of the fence had worn a deep dirt rut in the grass. While the cows grazed and the other calves played together, Mark daydreamed about adventure, and looked for a way to escape the confines of the pasture. He tried talking to the other calves, but they seemed utterly without curiosity.
“Don’t you want to see what’s Out There in the Wilderness?” he asked his friends Mahood and Hedden.
“Why?” Mahood said, “We’ve got everything we want right here.”
“Yeah, we’ve got everything we want,” echoed Hedden.
“But we’re not free,” Mark insisted.
“I’m free,” Mahood said, swishing his tail to flick a fly off his ribcage, “free to eat, free to play, free to take a crap anywhere I want.”
“Yeah free to take a crap,” Hedden laughed and yelled, “Field dump!”
He turned his rear toward Mark and pushed out a load. The gooey green poo thudded to the ground a few inches from Mark’s front hooves.
“At least I still have balls” Mark mumbled as he walked away.
One afternoon when he was feeling particularly restless, Mark circled his mother while she grazed.
“Please stop Dearie, you’re making me dizzy.”
“I’m bored” he told her.
She looked up at him, munching a mouthful of grass, finished chewing, swallowed and said, “Cattle don’t get bored, we’re naturally content.”
“Well, I’m not.” Mark said.
The cow pulled another mouthful of grass and began chewing.
“Did you hear that mother? I’m not.” Mark insisted.
“Hmm? If your hot go stand under the tree,” the cow replied.
“Not hot. Not! I’m not content. I’m bored,” Mark insisted, then added, “I want to go Out There.”
His mother swallowed another mouthful of greens and said, “Out where Dearie?”
“Mother, I’ve told you a million times. Out There in the Wilderness, on the other side of the fence,” Mark tossed his head toward the offending barbed wire barrier.
The cow looked over at the fence, blinked twice, and said, “Don’t be silly. Why would you want to leave the pasture?”
She never seemed to remember what he had told her, so he started to explain again, “There’s animals, bisom and delk and…and ravens.” He wished he’d gotten a little more information from Clowers so he could sound convincing.
This was the point where his mother usually wandered off, but this time she raised her head, looked at him curiously and said, “Cattle don’t belong in the wilderness Dearie. We can’t defend ourselves. That’s why we need the Ranchers. They put the fence there to protect us from danger.” She chomped at the grass, began chewing again.
“The Ranchers!” Mark sputtered, “Mother don’t you remember how badly they treated me? They threw me down, hurt my ears, burned me, tried to castrate me.” Mark looked at his mother’s tagged and tattered ears and the scarred hairless brand on her side.
“They hurt you too didn’t they?”
“Oh I know it seems harsh,” the cow replied, “but it’s for our own good. For our safety.”
Mark was stunned. How could his mother prefer the cruelty of the Ranchers to the freedom of the Wilderness? She must really believe it was dangerous Out There. But Clowers had never said anything about danger. He had made it sound exciting, mysterious, but not dangerous. Maybe his mother was wrong, maybe she didn’t really know what she was talking about.
“I don’t think…” Mark began.
“That’s good Dearie, don’t think,” his mother said, “Cattle aren’t supposed to think. That’s for the Ranchers to do. We’re just supposed to consume grass and hay and if we’re lucky, some grain now and then. Go on and eat. You’ll feel better.”
Mark was more confused than ever. Did he really need a fence to keep him safe? Did he need the Ranchers to take care of him? If all of the other animals could survive in the Wilderness, why couldn’t he? And was his entire life only about consumption? Was that the extent of it? He wished the raven were here to answer his questions.
Mark left his mother and walked toward the center of the pasture, he laid down on a little mound of dirt to chew some cud and think on things. A high pitched whistle startled Mark out of his daydreaming. He turned his head and looked behind him where a fat prairie dog sat on its haunches frowning.
“Hey fella, would you mind moving your behind off of my front door?” said the critter.
“Oh sorry!” Mark stood up, walked over to the rodent and asked; “Who are you?”
“Name’s Franklin, and you?”
“I’m Mark.”
“Pleased to meet you Mark, now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get home. Early to bed early to rise makes one healthy, wealthy and wise!”
Wise? Maybe this little guy could help sort things out. Franklin was moving toward the hole where Mark’s butt had recently rested.
“Wait, can I ask you something.”
The rodent paused, looked up at the curious calf. This was new. None of these bovines had ever wanted to converse with him or his kind before, let alone ask for advice. Here was a chance to share his vast wealth of knowledge.
“Sure, what is it?”
“Well,” began Mark, trying to sort out the jumble of questions in his mind, “To begin with, what do you know about the Wilderness?”
“Ah the wilderness. Feeling a little claustrophobic are we?” Franklin rubbed his chin. “Just remember; distrust and caution are the parents of security.”
“Huh? What does that mean? What I want to know is; why can’t I leave this pasture whenever I wish?”
“If one could have half of his wishes, he would double his troubles.”
Mark took a step closer as if that would help him decipher the prairie dog’s cryptic quotes. “Are, are…you talking about the fence? I’m trying to find a way to get Out There. Can you tell me how?”
“Mmmm, I’ve seen the way you walk along the fence day after day, hour after hour. But, one should never confuse motion with action. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”
This was getting more confusing by the moment. Why couldn’t he understand what Franklin was saying? “Look, all I want to know is; why am I… and my family, confined to this pasture? What are we doing here? Why do the Ranchers treat us so badly? Why can’t we be free?”
“Free!” Franklin gave a little chuckle, “My boy, what do you know about freedom?”
“Nothing!” Mark shouted, “That’s what I’m asking you about!”
“Well that’s a good start. The doorstep to the temple of wisdom is knowledge of our own ignorance.”
Mark opened his mouth, he blinked, and blinked again. “You don’t really know anything about the Wilderness or freedom or the Ranchers do you?”
“They that will not be counseled, cannot be helped. If you do not hear reason she will rap you on the knuckles.” Franklin smiled, thoroughly pleased with himself.
Mark was on the verge of exploding in frustration. Franklin seemed to be saying something important, but Mark couldn’t understand any of it. Did this guy know something or not? Speaking very slowly and clearly Mark tried again, “Is there any reason I shouldn’t be able to do as I please, go where I want, be free?”
“Why sure there is! It’s called the fence.”
“Aaagh!” Mark reared up on his hind legs and came down, stomping the dirt a few inches from the prairie dog. Franklin scampered away, then turned. “Easy there guy, passion governs, and she never governs wisely you know.”
“No I don’t know! I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t think you do either. You can’t help me. You’re not wise at all, you’re just a, an old…an old, fat, fool!”
Franklin frowned, pressed his lips together. All he was trying to do was give some sage advice and this calf was getting downright insolent. “I guess I don't so much mind being old, as I mind being fat and old. Life's tragedy is that we get old too soon and wise too late. Experience is a dear teacher, but fools will learn at no other.”
Mark sighed, “OK I give up, I was just hoping you could help, but forget it.”
“Hoping? He that lives upon hope will die fasting. Just remember, energy and persistence conquer all things.”
“Yeah right, thanks.” Mark turned to go.
Franklin waved a paw, “You’re quite welcome. Any time. And keep in mind; if your head is wax, don't walk in the sun,” he said as he slipped into his hole.
“Ugh! Whatever,” Mark broke into a trot, heading again for the tree where he’d met the raven. Now he wished more than ever to find his clear speaking friend waiting there for him. But the tree was empty.
CHAPTER 6
Kerry Johnson and Dean Howe of Bar W rode out to the pasture one morning to check the herd. Johnson leaned down from the saddle and pulled the loop of rope over the post that held the wooden gate shut, he nudged his horse forward and swung the gate open. Howe walked his horse through and when he was clear, Johnson swung the gate closed, looped the rope back over the fencepost and followed Howe into the pasture. Neither of them took any notice of the raven sitting on top of a tree stump a few yards away.
As the pair approached the herd, the cows rose up from their relaxed positions and placed themselves between the ranchers and their calves, mooing a warning to their offspring. Soon the air was filled with the sound of agitated cows worrying over their calves and the calves answering in frightened bleats. Johnson and Howe moved among the cattle taking stock of their general condition.
“Hey look at that,” Howe pointed at the Red Angus calf that belonged to the Casablanca. It was moving away from them along the fenceline, its tail swinging back and forth as it walked.
“Well I’ll be” said Johnson, “How do you suppose he got that elasticator off ?”
“Beats me, never seen that happen before” Howe replied. “Better call Feldon and let him know. They’ll want to do something about that as soon as possible. That calf’s getting near weaning age.”
Johnson nodded and added, “They’re gonna have to take ‘em off with a knife this time. Make sure it gets done right.”
The two men turned their horses back toward the gate. Fifteen feet overhead, a raven soared in tight circles.
CHAPTER 7
The raven flew over the pasture, eventually spotting the restless calf walking slowly with his head down toward the old tree. Clowers got there first, and perched himself in the oak, waiting for Mark’s arrival.
“Hey Mark,” the raven called out when the calf got within hearing range. Mark looked up, then trotted over and stopped directly under the big black bird.
“Hey Clowers,” Mark’s usually sullen demeanor changed to happiness at the appearance of the winged adventurer. At long last, he would get his questions answered!
“Got something to tell you,” the bird said.
Mark wondered at Clowers seriousness. Usually the raven would have opened with a joke and raucous laughter.
“What?” Mark asked.
“You want the bad news first or the good news?”
That was more like it, thought Mark, this sounded like the beginning of a joke. He relaxed and played along, “I’ll take the bad news first.”
“Your balls are on the line again.”
Mark looked puzzled, Clowers still wasn’t laughing. So far, this joke didn’t sound too funny.
“My balls…what?”
“I overheard the Ranchers talking about taking your balls off” Clowers explained.
Mark felt sick, remembering the throbbing pain of the elasticator cutting off the circulation to his testicles.
“Uh, what’s the good news then?”
“I think I can get you out of here.” Clowers said.
Mark’s painful memory turned to joy. A thrill ran through him and he couldn’t contain the rush of adrenaline. He reared up, pawed the air and shouted, “Out There! Out There in the wilderness? Let’s go. Let’s go now!”
“Haw Haw Haw!” laughed Clowers and for a moment Mark’s heart dropped. Was Clowers only joking? Was this his sick idea of humor? Oh please no.
But the raven reassured him, “Not now, when it gets dark, meet me at the gate ok?”
“OKOKOK!” shouted Mark.
“Shhh. Keep it quiet. Act normal.” Clowers warned.
Mark immediately obeyed, he lowered his head to eat and pretended to be one of those contented cattle who never think about anything beyond the pasture. But inside he was quivering with delight and anticipation.
Add comment December 14th, 2008
INTRODUCTION
A few years back I was inspired by the Bush administration’s USA PATRIOT Act to write a story exploring the idea of Freedom versus Safety, taking inspiration from Benjamin Franklin’s assertion that “Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”
I decided to set the scene on a cattle ranch, with the key members of the Bush administration represented by cowboy characters and the American people being the cattle. For authenticity’s sake, I spent a week on a working guest cattle ranch in Idaho learning to herd, rope, tag and brand cattle. Armed with this experiential knowledge I wrote the draft for my story and spent several months editing and refining it. During this time a key member of the administration resigned, which took the wind out of my sails a bit, since he was a main character in my story.
Though I originally intended to get this published during Bush’s last term, it never happened. So before we enter the new era of an Obama presidency, while the story and characters still retain some relevance, I’ll post it in weekly segments leading up to Inauguration Day.
There are many analogous references throughout the story which the clever reader should have fun deciphering. For instance, the name of the ranch is Casa Blanca which is Spanish for White House. I hope you’ll enjoy my attempt at composing this little American fable and please feel free to comment or ask questions. This is a blog after all!
CATTLE LOGIC
An American Fable
By Sue Gray
CHAPTER 1
It was early March, a thin frost lay on the pastures of the Casablanca Ranch in western Wyoming. Under a starlit sky, Bettie Alice crossed the field, her abdomen heavy with child. She walked slowly with her head down, the stiff dry grass crunching beneath her feet.
She had just reached the fence at the northwest corner of the pasture when her water broke. She stopped, surprised. It was her first pregnancy, but she knew that the warm fluid dribbling down her thighs was the signal that her child was ready to be born. The contractions began and were mild at first. Bettie turned to head back. She took a few steps, paused as a wave of pain engulfed her midsection, breathed through it, took a few more steps. The contractions were coming closer together, the pain was too much. She fell to her knees, rolled on to her side and moaned. She breathed through a few more contractions, then felt the urge to push. She held her breath, pushed hard through the pain. The feeling passed and Bettie panted until it was time to push again.
After several hours, she was near exhausted. Her tan thighs were covered in dark sticky blood, her breathing had become ragged. For all her effort, the birth wasn’t progressing well. The child was too large for her narrow loins to bear. She was alone, scared, but she knew she had to push this child out, no matter how much it hurt.
The stars faded and the purpling sky was tinged with orange and yellow on the eastern horizon. Bettie shivered in the frigid predawn breeze. She’d lost so much blood, she was tired and wanted to sleep. She felt another contraction beginning, took a deep breath and pushed with all of her remaining strength. The baby’s head appeared. Bettie took another breath, pushed again, and her child was born.
Bettie groaned and laid her head down. She had no strength left to lick the calf clean. The cow lay bleeding into the short yellowed grass, her life quietly slipping away. She had been born on this ranch, and now she would die here. Bettie took one last groaning breath and then the calf was alone. He lifted himself on unsteady legs, blinked the birth fluid out of his eyes, saw the lifeless hump of his mother’s body, and started bawling.
CHAPTER 2
A ray of sun slid between the red felt curtains and cast a slender beam of light across Walker’s eyelids. He opened his eyes, threw off the heavy quilted cover and sat up. Leaning over the pillow, he pulled the left side of the curtain wide. Just a little past dawn.
“Let’s get going Rovey,” he said to the pudgy white mutt sleeping at the foot of his bed. The dog hoisted his sagging belly off the wooden floor and stretched, then went over to the door and sat expectantly.
Shuffling into the bathroom in his undershirt and boxers, Walker did his business and washed his hands and face. He pulled a comb through his graying hair and thought again about coloring it, but figured maybe it lent an air of wisdom.
He grabbed a fresh pair of jeans off the shelf in the cavernous walk-in closet and paired it with a dark blue wool shirt. After pulling on jet black Tony Lama boots, he completed the ensemble with a white Rodeo Drive Stetson. He lifted a brown suede jacket off the hook, slung it over his shoulder and checked his look in the gilt framed wardrobe mirror. Walker grinned. Rugged sophistication. He pulled the jacket on and reached in the pockets for his leather gloves, then faced the mirror again and saluted.
Walker opened the door and Rover followed him as he crossed the foyer and walked out of the front door onto the porch looking like he’d just stepped off the set of a John Ford movie. His tall slim build and distinctive swagger added to the cowboy image. If not for his small blue eyes set too close together which made him appear vaguely ape-like, he would’ve been a casting agent’s dream.
Rich Oyster was pitching hay from the back of a pickup truck over the fence to a dozen eager horses in the corral. Rover ran up to the back of the truck barking and yelping, flinging himself into the air and snapping at every forkful of hay as it flew toward the corral. The horses shied at the dog’s aggressive antics and Oyster cursed. “Get your damn dog outta here!”
“Come on Rovey,” Walker called, “that mean Mister Pearl doesn’t want to play.” Oyster scowled. OK yeah, he knew he had a funny name, but did the stupid Texan have to press it? The fact that the dolt had a dopey nickname for everyone on the ranch was no consolation.
When Walker reached the stable, Colwell had Coattails saddled and ready as usual. “Thanks Coley,” he said and took the reins of the dark gelding from the broad shouldered black man. He rubbed the horse’s neck with his leather gloved hand and said; “Good morning, how’s my boy?”
For Walker, taking a ride around the Wyoming cattle ranch every morning fulfilled a childhood fantasy born of afterschool hours watching Bonanza, the Rifleman, and Big Valley. He had some experience with horses, having spent part of his time on the family ranch in Texas. But his daddy had been an oilman not a cattle rancher. The horses weren’t the working kind and neither it turned out, was Walker.
He had partied hard through college. Instead of developing knowledge and wisdom, he developed a drug addiction and an alcohol problem that prevented him from retaining what little he learned. If it hadn’t been for his family’s generous donations to the University, he wouldn’t have graduated. He joined the National Guard to escape Viet Nam, but couldn’t escape his troubling habits. In his early thirties Walker went briefly and miserably into the family business. His substance abuse and lack of business basics doomed his prospects as an oilman, so his daddy pulled some strings to get him involved in various other enterprises, but nothing stuck. Now at 54, he had put his days of drugs and drinking behind him, but still couldn’t find a job he was good at. When DC Powers; a longtime family friend, had called offering him a position at the Casablanca ranch, Walker jumped at the chance to try his hand at cattle ranching. He and Rover had come up from Texas two weeks ago. It hadn’t taken long for the ranch personnel to figure out that the dog was the smarter of the two.
Walker slipped his left boot into the stirrup and swung his right leg over the saddle, then gave the gelding a gentle kick in the ribs. He wasn’t an expert horseman, but he could fake it pretty well. He guided the horse out of the corral and around the big white barn where a couple of cowhands were repairing a tractor. Walker tapped the front brim of his hat with two fingers the way he’d seen it done in Hollywood westerns. They obliged him with the same gesture, then snickered and wagged their heads as he rode away.
Walker headed out across the cattle pasture at the west end of the ranch. Brown and flattened by winter snow, last year’s grass was just beginning to send out shoots of green after the thaw. The cattle had been brought down from the high country in September to winter in the lower pastures and give birth to the Spring crop of Red Angus calves. Walker avoided going too near the herd because Rover always ending up stampeding them.
This morning the cattle were clustered in the south side of the pasture, so Walker headed north. Rover zigzagged in front of the horse sniffing for varmint holes. He found a den and dug furiously, throwing a spray of dirt between his back legs. The rodents were hiding too deep for him to reach, but no matter how unsuccessful his attempts, he never seemed to tire of the activity. Suddenly Rover stopped digging and sniffed the air. He barked and ran ahead to the northwest corner of the pasture. Walker saw buzzards circling high above where Rover was headed and decided he’d better check it out. Deciding was one of his best traits. Yep, he was a real good decider, even if all of his decisions didn’t exactly work out to his advantage.
Flies were gathering on the cow’s bloated carcass, but the calf stood close to her looking as if it expected her to get up and offer him a teat. Rover ran around to the back end of the dead cow sniffing the dried blood. He found the afterbirth and gobbled it down then turned and looked hungrily at the calf.
Assessing the situation, Walker made another decision. There was only one thing to do. He reached down, slipped his hand into the tooled leather holster attached to his belt, and pulled out his cell phone. He punched in the speed dial number for the foreman, and Rum Feldon answered; “Yeah?”
“Uh, I’m in the pasture and…I got a dead cow and a, uh…baby…uh...”
“Calf.” Rum offered
“Yeah, calf here and uh well, it’s still alive so, what should I, or in other words…”
“I’ll send someone out to clean it up,” Rum snapped.
“Oh yeah, ok then”
Walker was glad Feldon hadn’t asked him to bring the calf in. The thing was caked with dried blood and dirt. It would make a real mess of his clothes.
Colwell was shoveling shit out of the bull corral, a job that increasingly fell to him these days. It seemed that ever since he’d begun to have disagreements with management, he’d been given more and more distasteful tasks. He wasn’t happy about the way business was being conducted here at the Casablanca, or his part in it. Lately he’d been giving some serious thought about quitting the outfit, but suspected that he’d be gone before they gave him a chance to make up his mind.
Slinging another shovelful of shit on the pile, Colwell looked up to see Walker swaggering across the corral leading Coattails.
“Here you go Coley.”
Walker handed him the reins then sauntered off with Rover waddling by his side. Colwell leaned his shovel against the fence and led the horse over to the tackroom. He tied the reins to a rail and removed the heavy saddle and blanket, carrying them inside where Abe Elliot was rubbing oil into a saddle.
“The Texan?” he asked, as Colwell hefted the saddle onto a log mount.
“Yeah.”
“Thinks he’s too important to take care of it himself,” Abe said.
“I can’t tell if it’s arrogance or ignorance,” Colwell replied.
“Both.” Abe said, “Rich kid, used to having everything done for him.”
“He sure doesn’t know shit about the cattle business,” Colwell said, “I don’t understand what a guy like that is doing here, and staying in the big house to boot.”
“Well,” Abe said, “when you see a turtle sitting on a fencepost, you can be damned sure it had help gettin’ there.”
Connie Pilaf set out in the jeep as soon as she got the call from the foreman. Besides Colwell, she was the only African American on the ranch and the only woman. Despite her petite size, she worked as hard as any of the men, and had earned the reputation that no job was too dirty or difficult for her.
Connie drove over to the corner of the pasture where the newborn stood bawling by his dead mother. “Wolfy push,” Connie commanded. The slender black and brown dog jumped out of the jeep and ran over to the calf. Wolfy came up close behind the calf and yapped sharply, startling it and sending it bounding away from the carcass on wobbly legs.
While Wolfy held the calf away, Connie hooked a cable around the cow’s neck and wenched the putrid body on to the trailer behind her jeep. She grabbed a piece of canvas cloth out of the back seat and walked slowly toward the calf. Tossing the cloth over the frightened animal, she picked it up and wrapped the calf’s torso and legs tightly so it couldn’t wriggle out, carried it to the Jeep and set it in the back seat. Wolfy jumped in next to the squirming bleating bundle.
Back at the ranch Connie instructed Colwell to prepare a bottle of warm milk and left the calf with him. She called the Cody Animal Services Dept. to pick up and dispose of the cow’s body. After that she called Feldon.
“Yeah?” Rum answered.
“I’ve taken care of the carcass and I’ve got Colwell bottle-feeding the calf, what’s next?” she asked.
“Just keep that calf alive, I’ll call the other ranches and see if they’ve got a situation we can take advantage of.”
“Yes, sir.” Connie answered.
She hung up and gave her head a toss, as if to clear her face of a stray strand of hair, but her stiff straightened shoulder length do didn’t budge. She stood and marched out to relay the order to Colwell.
Rum Feldon’s spacious office was situated at the end of the L-shaped bunkhouse building. From his window he could see most of the bunkhouse, the main house and the driveway, allowing him to keep an eye on the comings and goings of everyone on the ranch. The hands referred to it as “Command Central.” Rum sat at his desk, the high backed wood chair framing his square shoulders. Dinero, Rum’s black and white border collie, was laying on the floor next to him. He reached down and scratched the dog’s head, then picked up the phone and made some calls.
The Bar W ranch had a calf die two days ago. They were keeping it in cold storage until the vet had a chance to determine the cause of death. With current concerns about anthrax, hoof and mouth, and mad cow, they couldn’t be too careful. Rum arranged to get the calf’s skin delivered after the vet gave the ok.
It was an old trick; wrap the motherless calf in the dead one’s hide and, recognizing her own calf’s smell, the cow would adopt the orphan and care for it. Sometimes it didn’t work out, but this wasn’t one of them. Within a few days the newborn Red Angus was suckling away at his foster mother’s udder in the neighboring Bar W pasture. The stiffening hide of the dead calf was removed and the cow was none the wiser.
The calf thrived under his new mother’s care and was growing rapidly. The hands at both Bar W and the Casablanca were talking about the calf’s unusually large size. He wouldn’t be as easy to handle as the other calves come branding and tagging time, so it was decided to get him done early.
Connie Pilaf and Rich Oyster drove over to the Bar W pasture in the jeep one morning when the calf was barely two months old. They brought Wolfy along to help. Connie pitched a forkful of hay under the mother’s nose while Oyster tied a rope to the rear bumper of the jeep. He looped the other end and threw the lasso over the calf’s head then grabbed the calf’s torso and tipped it to the ground. He quickly removed the rope from its neck and tied the two front feet together. He took another piece of rope and tied the back legs, then kneeled on the calf’s neck. The calf squirmed and squealed causing the cow to leave off munching and move to protect her child. Wolfy yapped and lunged at her, driving the agitated mother away.
Connie reached into the back seat of the jeep and pulled out a bag of tools and the electric branding iron. Kneeling on the calf’s rump, she handed the bag of tools to Oyster. He reached in, pulled out the tagger and loaded it with a green plastic rectangle with the number 347 printed in black. He punched the tag into the calf’s right ear. The calf let out a cry of pain and the cow mooed, tossed her lowered head from side to side and tried to move in closer, but Wolfy kept her at bay. Oyster exchanged the tagger for another tool. He positioned the notcher and punched a triangular piece of flesh out of the edge of the calf’s left ear. The calf bawled out and the cow mooed her distress while Oyster took a syringe and shoved the needle into the skin of the calf’s neck, smoothly injecting the vaccine.
Connie had the branding iron heating up while she stretched the elasticator; a small rubber ring, over the calf’s testicles. Finally she positioned the iron with the letters DC over the calf’s flank and pressed down hard. The calf gave a scream of pain as the hot metal seared away fur and flesh. The cow charged past Wolfy, mooing in protest over the torture of her adopted child, but the deed was done. The calf was reunited with its foster mother, tagged, notched, vaccinated, and marked with the brand of DC Powers. Within a few days, the elasticator would effectively squeeze off the blood supply to the calf’s testicles and they’d fall off, turning the potential bull into a steer.
CHAPTER 3
While its foster mother grazed, the calf wandered around the pasture, exploring his rural environment. He meandered slowly, sniffing the newly sprouted grass with his soft wet nose, nibbling at the occasional dandelion. When the gnarled gray trunk of a large oak tree loomed into view, he stopped and stared up at the leafy limbs spreading above him like the arms of some giant creature.
“What’s that mark?” a deep crackly voice sounded from over head.
“Huh?” the startled calf took a few steps back and looked up.
“What’s that mark?” the voice repeated.
“Um. Who’s there?” the calf asked.
A large black bird peeked around from a high branch behind the trunk and hopped down to a lower branch in front, tilting its head to peer at the calf. “Never answer a question with a question,” scolded the raven. “I’ll ask again. What’s that mark, the one on your side where the hair is missing?”
The calf turned his head and looked at the raw brand on his flank, “It’s something the Ranchers gave me. They stuck me with a hot thing.”
“Well it makes you look like sort of a knucklehead…but I suppose you’re stuck with it. Get it, stuck with it. Haw Haw!” the raven said.
“Who are you?” Mark asked.
“My name’s Clowers, what do they call you?”
“My mom calls me Dearie.”
“Well I’m sure not calling you Dearie,” the Raven said, “I guess I’ll just call you…Mark. Haw Haw Haw!”
The calf didn’t like this bird’s stupid jokes and he especially didn’t like being laughed at. He turned and started walking away, but Clowers called, “Oh come on now, don’t get mad, I’m just funnin.”
The calf turned his head and looked back at the bird, then he had an idea.
“Hey, will you look at something for me?”
“Sure Mark, what is it?” the bird spread his wings and glided from the tree to the ground, then hopped over to face the calf.
“It’s my…it’s…oh just look between my back legs.”
Clowers walked behind the calf as Mark spread his legs and lifted his tail. His testicles were swollen and blue from the elastic ring squeezing off the blood.
“Hmmm,” the raven mused, “I’d say that’s a tight situation. Haw Haw Haw!”
Seeing the calf’s annoyance, Clowers added hastily, “Want me to see if I can fix it?”
“Yeah, it really hurts.” Mark replied.
Clowers reached up, clasped the ring with his beak and tugged.
“Ow!” yelled Mark, but Clowers tugged harder and finally pulled the band off.
Mark felt the blood rush back into his balls and the painful throbbing subsided.
“Whew! Thanks, that feels a lot better!”
Still holding the elastic ring in his beak, Clowers looked up at the calf’s rear quizzically.
“What?” asked Mark.
The raven spit out the ring and said, “Sometimes I find,” he pointed his beak at Mark’s balls, “those things just lying on the ground.”
“And?” said Mark
“And…they’re pretty tasty really.”
Mark gasped, “You EAT them?”
“Hey! How was I to know?” Clowers defended.
The calf rolled his eyes and sighed, “Well at least you won’t be getting mine.”
The raven teased; “Not today anyway, but watch your back. Haw Haw Haw!”
Mark went to the tree at the west end of the pasture every day after his first meeting with the raven, but Clowers wasn’t there. After a while he started to forget about the bird until one day he felt a large shadow pass over him. When he looked up, Clowers was soaring ten feet above, headed for the old oak. “Still got your balls?” the raven shouted, “Haw Haw Haw!”
Mark broke in to a run.
“Whe…whe…” was all Mark could get out when he finally reached the tree.
Clowers sat on a low branch preening his feathers.
“Slow down boy, take it easy, breathe…Haw Haw!”
Mark took a few breaths, then said, “Where have you been?”
“Been all over. There’s a lot more than you know out there” replied Clowers, waving his right wing in a sweeping motion toward the hills beyond the fence.
“Out There,” Mark repeated dreamily. It sounded so mysterious and exciting, he said it again, “Out There” then wondered aloud, “Where is Out There?”
“Well,” Clowers tried to think of the best way to explain, “it’s the wilderness. Where all the other animals live.”
“Other cattle and horses you mean?”
“No, just deer and elk and bison and a lot more.” Clowers instructed.
Mark’s head was reeling with the idea of other animals living outside of the pasture. He wanted to go Out There right now. He jumped straight up and kicked his heels, tossed his head and yelled, “Wow!”
“Haw Haw! Settle down there fella” chuckled Clowers, “I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”
“NO, NO!” Mark screamed, “I want to see it myself, I want to go Out There in the Wilderness!”
“Whoa” Clowers shook his head, “You can’t leave this pasture.”
Mark looked shocked, “What! Why? Why can’t I leave?”
“Because of the fence. You can’t fly over it like I do.” The raven flapped his wings and teased; “Unless you got some wings hidden somewhere. Haw Haw…” but Mark looked so disappointed that Clowers took pity and quit laughing.
“Listen son,” he said, “Some animals are born free, others aren’t. Cattle are born into captivity. I know it doesn’t sound fair, but that’s the way it is. Just be glad you’re not a horse, they really got a bad deal. At least you don’t have Ranchers riding your back, eh?”
The Raven lifted off and called back over his shoulder, “Gotta go, see you next time” leaving Mark standing dumbfounded under the spreading oak.
Until now Mark had been content with his life in the pasture, munching sweet grass all day, resting and chewing cud in the shade of the trees, playing tag with the other calves. He had thought he was free. But that was before he knew about the fence.
The fence. It had been such a benign object, Mark had simply accepted it as part of his world. Now the weathered gray wooden posts and three rusty barbed wire strands had become a hated symbol of captivity, separating him from freedom and adventure. He began to walk the entire perimeter of the pasture every day, scanning for any evidence of weakness in the fence.
Add comment December 8th, 2008
Aspen is unique in that everyone is exceedingly wealthy, or is about to become so.
For example, the guy who makes balloon animals on the weekends is about to become the richest man in New Zealand. It’s true. He told me so himself. First, he needs to save up enough money to buy a plane ticket to Auckland, but that’s a minor detail. Once he gets himself there, he’s going to present a plan to the government that will not only make him a billionaire many times over, but also flood the country’s vaults with more money than they could possibly spend. (The government of New Zealand is apparently very open to meetings with anyone, even vagrant, balloon artists.)
Continue Reading Add comment August 15th, 2008
A recent study conducted by New Millennium Research, Inc., reported that 53 percent of U.S. high school students believe that Jesus Christ was an American.
“Quite honestly I was shocked,” said John Waterhouse, Chief of the Juvenile Research Division.
“Most multiple choice questions include what we call a ‘give me,’” Waterhouse explained, referring to the answer that is very obviously incorrect. “American was the give me. ”
Continue Reading 1 comment August 6th, 2008
