A Good Prank

Tools for tagging and/or causing trouble

As the only veterinarian for 100 square miles, Dad was called upon for many different animal situations.

Some dire.

And some not so much.

It was also his job to carry out the government programs of the time.

Brucellosis testing, for one.

And vaccinating for whatever was currently deemed important.

I should probably explain that, when a government vaccine program was initiated, the bottles of vaccine were sent along with little, metal tags.

After an animal had been properly vaccinated, a tag was clamped at the edge of one ear.

Proof of the deed.

Both duties involved long hours standing beside a chute - vaccine gun in one hand and tagging pliers in the other - while cattle were shuffled and sorted.

One herd was taking a particularly long time.

Unseasoned help?

Uncooperative animals?

Whatever the reason, Dad found himself standing for long periods of time with literally nothing to do.

Not a good situation for someone like him.

Mischief happens.

The owner had turned away, trying to see over the fence at what was going on in the next pen.

Dad glanced over.

The coat and coveralls the rancher was wearing were . . . right there.

Hmmm.

He reached out with his tagging pliers.

And tagged.

Deftly (Ooh, I like that word!) and effectively pinning the man's coat and coveralls together.

The work continued.

Cattle were pressed forward down the chute.

Vaccinated and tagged.

And released.

Finally, the long job drew to a close.

As Dad was packing away his instruments, the rancher invited him inside for a chat and a hot drink.

I should mention here that the people who live in the wide stretches of ranching country are among the most welcoming and friendly in the world.

Any excuse is a good excuse for an invitation to visit.

I love it.

Back to my story . . .

Dad accepted the invite.

The two of them walked to the farm house.

And into the back porch.

Dad removed his boots.

The rancher did the same.

Dad removed his coat.

The rancher . . . didn't.

Oh, there was an attempt.

Some grunting and a couple of gruff words.

But, for some reason, the man and his coat simply couldn't . . . part company.

So to speak.

Finally, the man stripped off his coat and coveralls together.

And discovered the little, metal clip that held both of them firmly together.

He turned an accusing glare on Dad.

Who, with a wide grin on his face, found somewhere else to look.

The tag was easily pried off.

And coat and coveralls hung neatly – and separately – in the closet.

But the prank was never forgotten.

For years afterwards, whenever vaccinating, my Dad, veterinarians in general, the Government, ranching, chores, or ranch life were mentioned, that rancher would recall the time that Dad stapled him into his clothes.

The days come and go on a ranch.

But a good prank goes on forever.

Never Anger the Ranching God!

Blair. Getting a haircut. And shave.
By Mom, the barber.

The calving field (aka: the tree field), was a quarter of a mile from the ranch buildings.

Not so great a distance if you wanted a good walk, or a short ride.

But a marathon in length when you were pushing sick, weary stock.

Dad came up with plan 'B'.

Metal corral panels that could be instantly set up anywhere.

Genius.

In the corner, next to the road and immediately adjacent (good word) to the main gate, he assembled his new acquisition.

Shiny green panels of tubular, green-painted steel.

They were heavy-duty. Solid.

And could be set up at a moment's notice.

The answer to all of our prayers.

Okay, we hadn't been praying about it, but you get the picture.

Moving on . . .

We rounded up the herd and pushed them into the corrals which had magically appeared in their own field.

I can't tell you how easy it was.

Okay, I probably could, but . . .

Ahem.

All was going well.

Never say that when ranching.

Because Alfred, the God of Ranching, immediately begins to get creative.

And sends all sorts of 'challenges'.

On this particular day, he sent Nature.

Capital 'N'.

Now, ordinarily, I love storms. The bigger and noisier, the better.

I witnessed (and lived through) the great Edmonton Tornado of 1987.

But that is another story.

Today's storm was a bit different.

There wasn't any wind. A miracle where we lived.

Or rain.

There was only lightning.

And we were standing immediately adjacent (that word again) to metal corrals.

I needn't tell you that lightning likes metal.

My Dad, my younger brother, Blair, and I were busily engaged in . . . cattle stuff.

We really didn't notice the approaching storm until it broke, quite literally, over our heads.

The air suddenly turned a sort of greenish colour.

Then a deafening ZZZZZZZZZZST!

There was a transformer on a tall power pole immediately outside the main gate of the field, not 30 feet from where we were working.

It exploded.

No, really.

It was there one moment.

Then gone the next.

A curl of smoke rose from the place it had been.

It was rather hard to ignore.

We all froze in our various positions.

Dad and I outside the corral.

Blair stuck in the middle.

With several head of cattle.

Instinctively, he started towards the corral fence.

“Freeze!” Dad barked.

Blair did.

The cattle weren't as obedient.

Now that I think about it, cattle never are.

Obedient, I mean.

But I digress . . .

Let's just say that they were nervous, shall we?

They immediately began to move around, jostling Blair and each other.

“Blair! Don't move!” Dad said. “The next strike will be close!”

Sometimes I hate it when people are right.

Again, the greenish colour.

Again the loud ZZZZZZZZZZST!

Again the exploding.

But what I can remember most is Blair, staring at me from inside that metal corral.

That green lightning magnet.

Completely helpless.

I know I did do some praying then.

That second strike hit the next power pole, just down the road from the first one.

And then the storm moved away from us.

We started breathing again.

Moving.

Blair lost no time in sprinting across the corral and vaulting the fence.

Let's just say that the Olympics committee would have been impressed.

For several minutes, we just stood there.

Outside the corrals.

Thankful to be alive and safe.

It was sometime before Dad could convince us to get back to work.

Not an unusual challenge.

But this time we had a good excuse.

The Question I Get Asked the Most

Today, I am featuring a guest post by one of my favorite bloggers, Ginger, at 'The Amateur Writer'. A fellow 'rancher', she has captured what life is like on a ranch perfectly.
It is a sweet read!
Enjoy!
The Amateur Writer

Lady and Other Horses I Have Known



My littlest sibling, Anita (she's so cute!)
With another of our horses, King Prancer . . . and a friend





Age or inexperience were no barriers when it was time for roundup on the Stringam ranch.

The newest Stringam was merely perched up on Lady and told to "Hang on!"

A little background . . .

Lady was a tall, black mare of indeterminate years, who knew more than most of the humans in the vicinity. She would be put on tail (the position in the . . . er . . . rear . . . of the herd.) and could keep the entire herd going.

With or without human guidance.

So it just made sense to put the most inexperienced rider with the wisest teacher.

All one had to do was be ready for any sudden shifts and turns.

If a cow suddenly took it into her head to take off for . . . elsewhere, Lady was on them in a heartbeat. Less, if your heartbeat is slow.

Over the years, we had a few mishaps. Lady would suddenly spot a member of the criminal element sneaking away and she would charge, heedless of whomever was, more or less, sitting in her saddle. Many times, if her rider was particularly inattentive, she turned right out from under. Her hapless human would suddenly discover just what it was like to hang, suspended, in the air.

For a moment.
Then he, or she, would end up finding out just how hard the prairie can be. Usually on their backs. Staring up at the sky, and completely devoid of breath.
Lady would complete her transaction and return peacefully to the scene of the crime. She would nose her rider gently and look down at them with soft, 'Now what are you doing down there?' eyes.
She was too sweet and too gentle to really make any of us angry, regardless of how long it took to regain our breath. Plus she was a darn good worker.
The funny thing is, we never tried bringing her out without a rider. As I look back, that would have been a logical experiment. (And certainly one that my brother George, he of the strange aversion to horses, would have loved to try.)
But the fact of the matter was that there were simply too many Stringams clamoring for a chance to help with roundup.
To send out an empty horse would have been criminal, however entertaining the rest of us might find it.
Lady was definitely one of a kind.
Oh we had other horses. Lots of other horses.
Slim. Tall and rangy, and with a terrible loathing for men. But a sweetheart when ridden by a woman or child. Coco. Another gentle mare, quiet, unassuming, but lazy. Far happier with her nose in a manger than breathing the soft prairie winds. Steamboat. An enormous and unholy mix of thoroughbred and percheron. He could cover the ground quickly and efficiently, but with a gate that could rattle the fillings out of anyone's teeth. The ponies, Pinto, Star and Shammy, who would submit to anything their young riders could inflict, except leaving the ranch buildings. Luke. Nipper. Topper. Eagle. Peanuts. Gypsy. The list goes on and on.
These, and others like them were our partners and friends during the long hours that define ranching.
Each had their own distinct personality. Likes and dislikes.
And all were graded according to ability, size, and disposition.
As us kids grew, we were graduated from one to the next.
But we all started with the same mount.
To say that we could ride before we could walk was, literally, true. We had Lady. She of the very, very apt name.

Life on the Ranch

The new barn

I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated half way between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. We learned to swim in that river. We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. I even trapped a full grown jack rabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. At the time, it was normal. We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. For a child growing up, it was peace itself.