My Short Ranching Career. Part One

A guest post by Little Brother, Blair!

Blair. And bull.

When I was 12, my activities consisted of going to school and working on the ranch.

I tried to find ways to avoid the later, but dad was very good at making sure that I . . . didn’t.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate dad for this.

This changed . . .

One day dad and I went to the barn to check on a yearling heifer that had been very sick.

I don’t remember what disease that she had, but I do remember that she was so ill that all she could do is lie on her side and breath unevenly. Staring and unresponsive.

As I observed her symptoms, I concluded that it was very unlikely that she was going to survive.

I helped my dad give her a gruel that consisted of oatmeal and liquids. We had to slide a hose into her mouth and down into her stomach. Then we poured the gruel into a funnel at the other end of the tube.

As dad looked at the heifer, I’m sure he determined that there was not much hope for her.

Dad had to make a trip out of town for a few days so he charged me with the responsibility of caring for our invalid.

As he gave me the instructions on how to care for her, he concluded by saying “if you can save her, you can have her”.

Suddenly my perspective changed. All my efforts from that moment were devoted to trying to help the heifer recover.

I made sure she had fresh straw for bedding.

I made sure that she was fed her gruel.

I know I said a few prayers.

Mother was very helpful to me. She helped make the gruel and give it to the heifer.

A few evenings later, after mother and I gave the heifer her dose, she seemed to be trying to roll from her side onto her stomach. We helped her and the heifer held up her head.

Mom said that we should try to get her to stand.

This was a difficult task considering that the she weighed about 600 pounds.

We both pushed and lifted and the heifer slowly rose. She staggered a little then stood solidly on her feet.

Mom and I both cheered.

From this point ‘my’ heifer made a swift recovery. She grew up to become one of the young cows in dad’s herd.

She always had a white patch of hair on her side because she had been on her side for so long.

A cow version of bed sores.

A couple of years later she had her first calf. A growthy (Okay, that might not be a word but it is descriptive.) healthy bull calf.

That bull calf grew up.

And one day a cattle rancher visiting dad’s place looking for a bull spotted mine and he and dad agreed on a price.

Nursing that heifer. Feeding her. Caring for her.

Spending time with her.

Loving her.

Totally worth it.

In more ways than one!

Two Less Gophers

He only looks cute.
See that hole? Not good.

Warning: Many, many gophers were mortally wounded seriously harmed  in the telling of this story.

I want to preface this story with the fact that gophers, on a ranch, are bad news. They dig holes that unsuspecting horses and livestock stumble into, breaking legs and other appendages. They eat bushels of valuable grain. And they make dozens more little gophers. Who grow up to cause even more trouble. Thus costing ranchers hundreds, even thousands, of dollars. Gophers may look cute, with their little dark eyes. Their fur and their ‘chirp’. And their I.Q. which, if it went up a point or two, would reach the level of ‘imbecile’. But they are very bad news. Think of them as the little rats of the ranching world.

On to my story . . .

On a ranch, the use of firearms is a necessary skill. Coyotes, wolves, cougars and other predators can, and do, threaten the herd.

Marksmanship is also a necessity. If you’re going to use a gun, better hit only what you are aiming at. There can be no crazed waving of a gun. No popping off shots indiscriminately.

Let’s put it this way. ‘Bullets leave an indelible mark.’

So we kids on the ranch were taught the proper use of guns. And, during the summer, had daily target practice.

Our targets? The thousands of gophers that infested the prairie hills. We were actually performing two feats in one. Perfecting our aim and ridding the ranch of its number one pests.

It was my turn to be trained in the all-important use of the ‘22’.

Husby loaded me and my trusty little gun into the cab of the pickup and headed out to the nearest pasture. A piece of land heavily pock-marked with the mounds dug by our little, furry vermin. For several minutes, things went well. Gophers would pop out of their burrows. I would aim and fire.

My record, though not stellar, was approaching good.

He moved the truck slowly across the uneven ground. A gopher popped up. And another directly behind it.

I aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger.

Both went down.

I blinked. Two?

We drove closer and I got out. Yep. Two. The second had been blindsided because of the first. As a rancher’s daughter, it was one of my finest moments.

Okay. It doesn’t match the contributions made, daily, by the people fighting disease in every corner of the globe. Or those who constantly put their lives on the line in our defense.

Still, it’s a record that hasn’t been topped by anyone from our ranch.

For a country girl, a real contribution.

Every Wednesday, Delores of Under the Porch Light issues a six-word challenge.

This week's words?

marksman, stellar, blindsided, indelible, crazed and imbecile.

I'm sure she didn't foresee my using them to describe one of the less-desirable facts of life on a ranch.

Sorry, Delores! :)

Hurry over and see what her other followers have created!

Funny Friday

July (sort of) Friday Funny

Today’s post is July’s Funny Friday, a regular feature published on the last Friday of every month. Yes, we know it’s August but July ran out of Fridays. Totally not our fault.

Funny Friday is a collaborative project. Each month one of the participants submits a picture, then we all write 5 captions or thoughts inspired by that month’s picture. Links to the other bloggers’ posts are below, click on them and see what they've come up with. I hope we bring a smile to your face as you start your weekend.

Here’s today’s picture. It was submitted by 

Someone Else’s Genius

 1. They’ll never get through our starting line.

 2. He only looks tall.

 3. Don’t worry, big guy. We’re here to protect you . . .

 4. Maybe if they gave each of us a ball . . .

 5. You go. We’ll follow. Maybe.

Click on the links below and let some other bloggers make you smile:

Someone Else’s Genius

Confessions of a part-time working mom

The Momisodes

Sanity Waiting to Happen

Cluttered Genius

Stacy Sews and Schools

Baking In A Tornado

Black Sheep Mom

A Harvest of Memories

Mom always maintained a large garden.
Hmmm . . . let me reword.
Mom always maintained a humongous, gargantuan, colossal, huge, enormous, vast, giant, mammoth (that's all the big words I can think of right now) garden.
Better.
Okay, well, that's how it appeared to us kids.
I will admit, here, that my help during the weeding and hoeing was minimal.
Mostly my nimble fingers came into play during the shelling and snapping.
And the rest of me got very involved with the eating.
Ahem . . .
Mom and the older kids would come in from the garden with bushel baskets of freshly-picked peas and/or beans.
Us kids would find comfortable spots on the lawn in the shade of the huge pines. Each would have a bowl which we would replenish now and again from the central stock. Chris would turn on her radio.
And we would shell/snap. And talk.
Sometimes the talk would get quite serious. For example, it was while my older sister and I were shelling peas that she explained the facts of life to me.
True story.
At other times, we would get very animated and silly, quoting heavily from Mad Magazine or one of our favourite movies.
The hot sun.
The cool shade.
The soft grass.
The top 40 on the radio.
The smell of pine and sage and green, growing things.
Occasional snitches of deliciousness from my bowl.
My brothers and sisters around me.
It is one of my most treasured memories . . .
Today is the first harvest from this year's garden.
We picked peas, beans, beets and rhubarb.
And the next generation got involved in the processing.
Here's to many more years of gardening.
And a whole new passel of memories.

Snapping.

Shelling.
Heaven.

Passing the Torch

Foreground: Ranch.
Background: Machinery Hill

On the Stringam Ranch, there was a hill.

A large hill.

It had old machinery parked on top.

We called it the 'Old Machinery Hill'.

Okay, so creative, we weren't.

There, could be found the outdated, outmoded and discarded mechanical devices of ranch life.

Mowers, haybines, cultivators, tractors, cars and trucks.

All past their 'best-before' date.

All neatly parked in rows.

My brothers spent many blissful hours on that hill, deconstructing the various machines (and machine engines) to be found.

Excitedly, they would point out to me the valves and sprockets pulled from this amazing machine and 'Wow! Aren't they fantastic?!' Then proceed to explain just how these intricate little marvels fit into the whole 'making-this-machine-bale-hay' scenario.

To which I would nod and smile. Then run off to see what the horses were doing.

But that was just the beginning of my brothers' mechanical adventures.

Throughout their lives, I can picture them with various machine parts spread out neatly as they re-constructed and fine-tuned.

Something that still goes on today.

I should probably mention that the 'mechanical bug' hit me as well.

Later.

I took apart, fixed and re-assembled in my world, too.

Mom's piano-organ. Her toaster. Iron.

The only thing that defeated me were the clippers.

Oh, and the washing machine and I have a history, too.

But we won't mention those.

Please, let us not mention those.

Moving ahead . . .

Our four-year-old grandson was playing quietly in their basement.

A little too quietly.

Usually this heralded trouble.

His mother went to check.

She found him with one of his sister's musical toys disassembled in front of him.

Part of it had stopped working.

The need for new batteries had been ruled out because the other parts were still working.

He had rummaged through his father's tools and found the screwdriver he needed.

Then proceeded to take the toy apart.

This was when his mother came in.

He looked up at her.

“It wasn't working,” he said calmly. “So I'm fixing it.”

Now remember, this boy had just turned four in April.

The two of them saw that a wire had become disconnected.

They reconnected.

No response.

“It has a micro-chip,” he said suddenly, pointing. “See? It's fit in right there. Maybe it just needs a new micro-chip.”

His mother stared at him. “You're probably right,” she said, finally.

When she told us the story, I was reminded suddenly of my brothers.

With their tools.

And their sprockets and wheels.

The torch is truly passed.

The newest generation . . .
Photo Credit

When You've Got it...

I seem to have a way with turkeys.

If you missed yesterday’s post, see it here.

Go ahead. We’ll wait.

You're back? Read on . . .

He was handsome.

He was fit.

He was attractive.

He had the moves.

And he had eyes only for me.

Oh, and he was covered in feathers.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the town of Coaldale, Alberta is the Alberta Birds of Prey Centre. A centre dedicated to the rehabilitation of injured raptors. The stories of the hundreds of birds already helped back to the wild is inspiring. Visiting the place is an experience.

There are demonstrations and education stations throughout the site. Majestic birds with various injuries are glimpsed during their rehabilitation exercises. One, a golden eagle named Spirit, blinded by a shot from a careless hunter, is particularly exciting.

Especially up close.

Visitors can walk along the pathways and watch the antics of owls, hawks and eagles.

And one Turkey Vulture.

Snoopy.

Snoopy, unable to fly or survive in the wild due to various injuries, has been a happy attraction of the centre for several years.

When my family arrived, he was contentedly staked out with a long tether, enjoying the sun.

As I approached, he fanned out his tail, ruffled his feathers, clicked his beak and spread his not-unimpressive wings. Then he hopped toward me and . . . strutted. Hey, hey, hey lady! Like what you see? Huh? Do you? Huh?

Reaching the end of his tether, he continued to swivel back and forth, allowing every feather its opportunity to (quite literally) shine.

I called Husby over. “Look at this guy!”

Husby moved closer.

And that’s when the show ended. Every feather was slicked flat. Wings folded and tail snapped shut.

Snoopy just sat there. The very picture of indignant male. Oh, I see! You’ve already made your choice. Well, sucks to be you, lady!

Husby smiled and moved on.

“No!” I said. “He was different! He was all . . . ruffled!”

But Husby had already moved ahead to one of the hawk exhibits.

I looked back at Snoopy.

And received a shock.

Once more, his feathers stood on end. His wings and tail were spread. He was again looking at me. He shook his wings invitingly. How about now, lady? That guy is gone. All of this could be yours! Last chance . . .

One of the attendants moved past. “Oh, I see you’ve discovered Snoopy,” she said. “He likes the ladies!”

Snoopy the lady killer.

An appropriate title for a bird from a raptor centre.

With a totally different meaning . . .

P.S. My big question is: How could he tell?

Talk Turkey

I am bilingual.

Oh, not in the way you imagine.

My second language really isn't that practical.

Truth be told, I don't even know what I'm saying.

But the fact remains that I can speak another language.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My kids and I loved spending time at Fort Edmonton Park.

It's a stroll through Edmonton's history.

There's a bona fide re-creation of an 1846 fort.

And a small town.

Comprised of 'dated' streets.

1885 Street, devoted to life in Edmonton when dust and mud were king and electricity was something only Jules Verne imagined.

1905 Street, when modern dreams were beginning.

And 1920 Street, where modern conveniences and votes for women have become reality.

There are shops and residences with actors portraying very real Edmontonians of the past.

It was (and is) fun.

And we loved it.

We spent nearly every Thursday there throughout the summer.

Walking on stilts.

Playing games.

Eating baking fresh from the ovens.

Visiting the shops.

Inter'acting' with the actors.

It was a great way to spend a day.

Then we found the flock of turkeys behind one of the residences.

And that's when I discovered that I could speak a second language.

Turkeys make a distinct 'mmmmbladladladladladladladladl' sound.

And I could mimic it.

Really.

You want to talk talent?

We stood at the side of their large pen and I 'talked' to them.

The male got quite animated.

He ruffled his feathers and puffed up his facial dangly bits and marched around importantly.

It was very entertaining.

The kids would urge me on. “Come on Mom! Say something else!”

And I'd do my mmmmbladladladladladladladladl.

And the turkey would get apoplectic.

We even drew a crowd.

“Look! That woman can talk to the turkeys.”

Okay. Sometimes, you have to look for your entertainment.

And you have to admit that not everyone can talk turkey.

P.S. Guinea Pigs and I also have a history.

Bull Stones

I have spent the past week with my Dad.

At 89 years of age, this former rancher and veterinarian has decided to move to the nearby Senior’s Lodge.

He and I and his good friend, Shirley, have spent the time packing.

Boxing away the memories of a lifetime.

The bronze horse that was a gift from his wife on their wedding day. The painting purchased for that same wife a few years later.

Instruments of torture Veterinarian tools and equipment. His leather surgical kit. A box of assorted needles from the days before disposable syringes. His ‘vet’ bag.

Games and dishes and jewelry and bedding and pots and pans and knick-knacks and pictures and clothing and coins and stamps and furniture.

A lifetime.

Some of them were of interest only to Dad . . . 

Shirley and I were collecting the assorted treasures off the top of Dad’s dresser.

There was a valet tray with an assortment of cuff links, tie clasps, buttons and Hereford-themed pins.

Grooming supplies.

And a tiny container, glass-topped, full of little . . . beads.

Shirley shook it. “What is this?”

She handed it to me. I peered at it closely. Multi-coloured little rocks. “Looks like little bits of gravel. From a holiday somewhere?” I handed it to Dad.

He looked at it and smiled. “Oh. These are stones I removed from bulls’ penises during surgery.”

“Oh.” Shirley and I said together.

I’m quite sure my expression mirrored her own.

How do you say ‘ewwww’?

Oh, right. EWWWWWW!

Dad sat back, looking at the little container, still with that smile. Obviously remembering, fondly, his days as a veterinarian.

Yeah. Some memories are a little too . . . memorable . . . for the rest of us.

Care to go through some boxes with me?

Some of the numerous awards his cattle have won over the years.

The keyboard that figured so prominently a day or two ago . . .

Buses to Adventure

Oh, the places we went . . .

Photo Credit

Mom was washing the floor.

Something she did often.

Because.

I should mention also that, when Mom washed the floor, she WASHED the floor.

Everything portable was carried into the next room.

She got down on her knees with a pail of hot, soapy water and scrubbed.

Then she applied wax.

Then she ran the polisher. Which looked like a big, green bug on a long stick.

Just FYI.

The floor shone like a mirror. Perfect for sliding on with stocking feet.

But this story isn't about that.

This story starts where she carted the portable stuff into the next room . . .

As soon as the chairs appeared in the living room, George and I would materialize from what ever places we had disappeared into when Mom announced that she needed helpers to wash the floors.

Ahem . . .

We would line the chairs up, one behind the other.

Voila! Bus.

George would be the bus driver and I would be the lady with the 400 children riding in the back.

Okay, you're right. I didn't have 400 children.

But I did have 400 stuffed animals.

Sheesh. You're such a stickler for details.

Moving on . . .

Happily, we played until Mom finished with the floors and came out to dismantle our playground.

Actually, it was the one time in the week that George and I did play happily together.

A thing of note.

Oh, the places we went.

The children we dropped out of the windows and off benches.

Good times.

An aside: the couch worked well for a bus, too, but there was just something about articles of furniture sitting where they usually . . . didn't . . . that inspired – play.

Moving ahead many, many years.

Yesterday, some of our grandchildren were over for a visit.

Two of the kids had lined up several of grandma's stools.

I was holding granddaughter number five.

So I was instructed that I could be the mommy in the back with the baby.

Number three grandson, announced that he would drive.

It was then that I realized - they were playing bus.

I sat in the back as I had been told and I had to smile.

Suddenly, I was four years old again.

It was a good feeling.

Something New

Play it, Sam. Er . . . Mark . . .

My Dad is 89 years old.

Still alert, mentally, but weakened, physically, by a series of mini strokes.

He has made the decision to move to the Seniors’ Lodge in his immediate neighbourhood.

A few steps away geographically, but light years away in living accommodation.

He’ll have daily meals.

Lots (and lots) of company.

And care if and when he needs it.

His room will be comfortable.

But small.

For the past several days, he, his good friend Shirley (who has graciously come over to offer her time), and I have been ‘thinning’.

The by-product of which has been many saunters along memory lane.

I’ve heard stories about Grandpa Stringam (see here), Grandma Stringam and various relatives which will undoubtedly be the topic of future blog posts.

It has been a wonderful – and tender – time.

But, just this morning, I realized something.

This man has been around for all of my 58-plus years.

For 20 of those years, we lived in the same house.

Ate the same meals.

Shared chores, work, games, vacations, disasters, triumphs.

Laundry.

And love.

But still he can surprise me.

This morning, I heard the sound of a calliope.

Seriously.

Coming from Dad’s bedroom.

I dismissed it at first. He was listening to a recording from his endless collection.

Then, the music stuttered.

Started again.

Wait. That sounded more like something . . . live.

I peeked in the open door.

Dad had a musical keyboard on the bed and was leaning over it.

Playing.

I stared.

In the 58-plus years I’ve known him, I have never – even once – seen my dad play the piano.

NOT ONCE!

I’ve seen him ‘encouraging’ the rest of us to practice. (Play! I’ve spent my blood-stained money on you! Play!)

I’ve seen him smile in enjoyment at a piano performance.

But I’ve never seen him actually put fingers to keys.

Huh.

Even at 89 years young, he can still surprise me.

And that’s a good thing.

P.S. The opus he's playing, he proudly told me is "Sitting in the Garden Eating Worms".

When Nature Calls

You see a fence post. We see . . . 

Okay, I’m apologizing up front for this story.

It’s . . . gritty. So to speak.

Ahem . . .

I’ve always wondered about toilet paper ads.

Softer. Stronger. More effective.

I mean, why advertise this stuff?

Are there people who are actually not buying it?

Actually . . . yes.

Think of the people who live in places where dropping over to the local grocery store is really not a possibility. Like those in the deepest, darkest part of the jungle.

And their banana leaves.

Okay, I understand. Soft. Strong. Effective.

Now think of the cowboys on the wide, wide prairie.

Where there are no trees at all and leaves simply aren’t an option.

What are they going to do when nature . . . hollers?

Case in point . . .

Dad was out with his dad doing . . . cowboy stuff. Fencing and exploring the joys of barbed wire.

They were far from the ranch house and even farther from the miracle of indoor plumbing.

And its accoutrements.

Grandpa had to go.

You know what I mean.

He turned to Dad. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Dad nodded and continued with what he was doing.

Grandpa set down his fencing pliers and pulled out his pocket knife.

Dad stared at him, confused. Didn’t he just say . . .?

Grandpa walked over to one of the cedar fence posts and, using said knife, shaved off several pieces of wood.

Then he smiled at Dad and disappeared over the nearest hill.

Can anyone say ‘ouch’?

Yummies in the Tummy

Mom was right about the cake . . .

My Baby Sister, aged two, had crawled up on my Mom’s lap.

It was cuddling time.

I should probably mention that this didn’t happen often.

Cuddling, I mean.

Oh, not because Mom didn’t wish it.

No.

It was because we couldn’t get Baby Sister to slow down long enough to stay in one place.

She was one of those children who are always as bit blurry around the edges.

Because they are moving so fast.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Cuddling time.

Mom held her close.

Then counted her tiny, pink toes.

And all of her fingers.

And finally poked her round little tummy.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

Baby Sister looked at her and shrugged.

“Are there yummy things in there?”

Baby Sister looked at her tummy, lifting her little dress to see better. Then she looked back at Mom.

Mom went on. “Maybe there’s some cake and ice cream.”

Baby Sister’s eyes got wide.

“And some cookies. Maybe some pie and candy and pudding.”

With each new treat mentioned, Baby Sister’s blue eyes got wider and wider.

“And chocolate.”

Baby Sister could stand it no longer.

She pulled her dress up as far as she could. “Open it!” she said, pointing to her tummy. “Open it, Mommy!”
Enough talk. Let's get to the good stuff . . .

Mine Forever

Isn't it a beauty?

I had saved forever!

It was mine!

It's not fair!

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the early sixties, exciting things came in the mail.

Okay, yes, they still do.

But somehow, getting stuff in the mail is just a bit more exciting when you are eight.

At least it was for me.

Probably because it didn't happen often.

Getting stuff, I mean.

Dad would stop at the post office and come out with the usual bushel basket of ranch mail.

Whereupon (good word) I would pounce.

“Dad! Is there anything for me?”

He would look at me, smile and say,” What's your name?”

“Diane!”

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

I got smarter. Or at least more efficient.

“Dad! Is there anything for me? My name's Diane.”

But the answer seldom changed.

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

But when I was eight, I discovered that you could 'order' stuff.

Free stuff.

Really.

Lots and lots of it.

The back pages of literally every magazine had rows and rows of ads from companies who were just aching to mail it to you.

It was a whole new world.

I scoured every magazine, gleaning offers of free stuff.

I sent out dozens of requests.

And started receiving packages in the mail.

Pictures.

Books.

Games and puzzles.

It was like Christmas every time Dad went for the mail.

Now he no longer asked what my name was.

He simply handed me packages.

Ahhhh.

Valhalla.

Then I discovered something else.

I should mention here that Dad always kept a stock of ice cream and ice cream treats in the freezer.

For special times.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

Desserts.

Tuesday.

We weren't allowed to eat them without permission, though.

Bummer.

But that was all right.

We received permission a lot.

I'm sure you're wondering what this has to do with ordering stuff.

That part comes now . . .

The ice cream treats had wrappers.

Normally, we would simply throw them away when they had fulfilled their purpose.

Then I discovered that there were offers printed on them.

From 'Popsicle Pete'. Whoever that was.

Offers for 'free' stuff.

Okay, I realize that they weren't strictly free, being as you had to buy the ice cream.

But I digress . . .

If you collected 'X' number of wrappers, you could order 'Y'.

I studied the selection.

I made my choice.

I hoarded my wrappers.

Did you know that counting and re-counting doesn't magically create more wrappers?

Just FYI.

Eons later, I finally had enough.

I could order that super amazing, extra special . . . knife.

Knife?

Knife.

Just what every eight-year-old needs, right?

Oh it wasn't just any knife.

There was a picture of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman on it.

And it cost me every one of my 14 wrappers.

It was to become the heart of my collection.

Of stuff.

I sent out my wrappers.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, Dad handed me that extra special package.

I tore into the paper.

And triumphantly held up my knife.

Whereupon (Oooh. Twice in one post) Mom grabbed it.

“Diane! What are you doing with this?”

I stared at her. “It's mine. I ordered it.”

“You can't play with a knife!”

“I wasn't going to play with it!”

“What were you going to do with it?”

“Ummm . . . cut stuff?”

“Right. Your fingers, probably.” Mom carried my special treasure to the cupboard.

The one above the fridge.

The only one in the whole house that I couldn't get to.

“Mom! I bought that!”

“I know, dear,” she said. “And I will give it back to you. After you turn ten.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Ten?!”

“Yes. By that time, you will be old enough to own a knife.”

Ten?

Ten?!

That was forever!

I stared up at the cupboard.

Then at my Mom.

She couldn't possibly mean it.

“But . . . I bought it,” I said again.

Maybe it would have more impact this time.

“I know, dear,” Mom said.

“But . . .” I could think of nothing else to say.

That's when the tears started.

Even those failed to move her.

Sigh.

For years, my knife had its home in that cupboard.

Not to be discovered until we moved.

“Huh,” she said. “Look, Diane. Here's your knife.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” I said.

I took it from her and looked at it.

“Cute.”

“Diane! Can I have the knife?” It was my little brother, Blair.

Age? Ten.

“Sure.”

I handed it to him.

One should never have to wait for their fun.

Do Not Attempt This At Home

Okay, yes, this is me. Ignore the glasses et al.
But that is a genuine 4-H calf behind me.
See that head? Solid bone.

Have I ever mentioned that cows have a head comprised mostly of bone?

Seriously.

Their head is 99 % bone. With a tiny little space for a walnut-sized brain.

Okay, well, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

Their head can go through most anything.

Fences.

Doors.

Walls.

People.

You get them running and I swear they could go through solid concrete.

And laugh about it with their friends later.

That head is a force to contend with.

You get upwards of 2000 pounds of hair and hoofs going.

With a battering ram for a head and anything is possible.

And we puny little humans have to deal with these animals.

On a daily basis.

You want to talk about bravery?

True statistic: Dairy bulls kill more people annually than the grizzly bear.

Mind you, Dairy bulls usually have sharp, pointy things on that solid-bone head.

How can we make the situation just a bit more dangerous?

Put sharp, pointy things on it.

Where was I?

Oh yes.

Cow heads.

And puny humans.

On to my story . . .

Every fall, the eldest siblings in the Stringam household would happily show up for the organizational meeting of the Milk River 4-H Beef Club.

It was a highlight of the year.

They would then go out to the corral with Dad and choose a suitable calf to register in said club.

Then the work started.

I should mention here, that I never really got involved in the whole ‘work’ part of the scenario.

That’s what brothers are for.

Moving on . . .

My oldest sister, Chris was a lot more ‘hands-on’ than her younger sibling.
So to speak.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
She would go out and wash her calf.

Talk to it.

Put a halter on it and attempt to drag it around.

It was while attempting this last that she came to grief.

And pain.

Chris had been trying to train her calf to lead. An important skill when you plan to have the animal in a show ring.

The calf wasn’t cooperating.

Chris pulled and pushed.

The calf also pulled and pushed.

In the opposite direction.

Chris became frustrated. In an attempt to get the animal’s attention, she shaped her hand into the patented, TV-approved karate hold and . . . chopped.

Remember what I said about solid bone?

That would apply here.

Chris heard the satisfying *crunch* of pro-activity.

For a brief (very brief) moment, she thought, ‘Ha! Got you!’

Then the pain started.

Chris spent the next weeks in a cast to her elbow. Cursing the thick-headedness of cattle in general.

And her 4-H calf in particular.

We thought it was funny.

We never let her know, though.

Because ironically, though that hand, cast-less, couldn’t make much of a dent in a solid bone calf head, that same hand, cast-ed, was a weapon of world class destruction.

Just FYI.

Drinking Problem

Soooo simple. Soooo satisfying.

Horses are very much like people.

They have personalities.

There are friends.

And enemies.

They like to play.

Hate to work.

Live to eat.

They even have quirks.

Some have learned to take in a deep breath just as you tighten the saddle cinch.

Then let it out . . . later. Sneaky beggars.

Loose cinches cause accidents.

Just FYI.

I could go on and on about the tricks they play.

And how crafty they can be.

But that is another post.

This story is about Harry.

Harry the Horse.

And drinking.

Now, I should explain that horses, when they drink, don't lap like dogs and other animals.

They dip their lips into the water.

And suck.

Careful to keep their noses out in the air.

So to speak.

But a tired horse, coming back from a long day in the pastures, will try to drink with the bit from the bridle still in its mouth.

This results in . . . leakage. An imperfect seal at each side of the mouth.

Leakage.

Most horses simply ignore it and happily slurp up the water.

Except for Harry.

If Harry had been human, he probably would have been an efficiency expert.

He hated leakage. It was messy. And, for want of a better term, inefficient.

So Harry had come up with his own solution. If one just dipped a little more of one's mouth into the water, one could avoid the whole 'leakage problem'.

Genius.

He would lower his mouth into the trough to a level just above the bit.

Problem solved.

Of course, this meant that one's nose became, at times, perilously near, and even in, the water.

No worries. Just lift your head, take a breath, and lower it again.

Child's play.

Soon Harry discovered that he liked dipping his head into the trough.

If he was really tired, he would dunk it right up to his eyes.

Sometimes further.

And all you would see were a pair of ears, sticking out above the water.

Unusual to be sure.

But immensely entertaining.

It gave a whole new meaning to the terms, 'Here you go. Dig in!'.

'Wow. He's in it to the eyebrows!'.

'He's in over his head'!

Or, best of all, 'Go soak your head!'.

Yep.

Harry.

The perfect entertainment at end of a long, dusty day.

Tell-TALE Heart

Oh, it's not as innocent as it appears . . .

Maybe it wouldn’t have been quite so bad if I hadn’t just finished reading Edgar Allen Poe’s “Telltale Heart”.

Maybe . . .

It had been a busy day.

Busy.

Our children, and our children’s children, had just left. With six originals, plus spouses and offspring, that comes to . . . quite a number.

I had collapsed into the couch for some well-deserved R & R.

After the noise from so many bodies, the silence was almost thick around me.

I laid my head back. “Ahhhhh!” I relaxed there for a few moments.

Hmmm.

Funny.

I could hear the sound of my heart beating.

I smiled.

Then frowned.

Wait. I put one hand to my chest. That couldn’t be my heart. It was a different rhythm.

I sat up and looked around. The sound was gone.

Weird.

I got up and listened. Made a circuit of the room.

Nothing.

I must have imagined it. I relaxed back on the couch again. Laid my head back.

There it was!

The steady ca- thump, ca-thump of a heart.

Coming from . . . inside the couch.

My couch was haunted!

I leaped to my feet and went in search of my Husby. He would be able to tell me that I was just imagining things. And that my furniture hadn’t really taken on a life of its own.

“Sit down, honey,” I directed. “No. Right here.”

He sat down, eyeing me doubtfully.

“Now lean your head back.”

He did so, still keeping his eyes on me. Then, those eyes widened. He sat up and looked at the couch.

“You hear it, too?” I asked.

He nodded, still staring at the couch. He leaned over again, putting one ear against the fabric. “Huh,” he said. “I hear a heartbeat.”

“Is it a sign or something?” I asked.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. What on earth would a couch with a heartbeat be a sign of?

Humour me . . .

He shook his head. “There must be some explanation.”

“Well, you have to admit that it’s not every day you have furniture that develops . . . bodily functions,” I told him.

We took turns sitting on the couch and pressing our ears against the back. Each time, we heard the steady thumping of a heart.

Stranger and stranger.

Our front door opened and we both jumped. It was our second son, returning to pick up something his family had forgotten.

“Erik! Come in here!” We directed him to the couch. “Sit here!” We pushed him down. “Now put your head against the back.”

He did so, thinking all the while that both of his parents had suddenly taken the last bend in the road before reaching the loonie bin. Then he frowned. “It that . . .?” He turned his head and pressed his ear against the couch then looked up at us. “It’s a heartbeat.”

“I know!” we said together. “Our couch has a heartbeat!”

He frowned and put his head down once more. “Yup. Definitely a heartbeat.”

He got up and started probing the cushions.

“Erik, what are you doing?” I suddenly had visions of him coming up with a bloody, beating heart grasped in one hand.

“Ah!” he said, pulling his hand out. He was clutching a soft, furry little lamb. With cute little ears and a tiny little stub of a tail.

“I think this is your problem,” he said.

He put the lamb against my ear.

Ca-thump! Ca-thump!

“Oh!” I said. I took the lamb from him. “Ummm . . . why does it have a heartbeat?” I asked stupidly.

I’m sure the rest of you have heard of these things, but I swear I had not . . .

“It’s supposed to be soothing to a new baby,” Erik said.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. You put it in the cradle. The baby’s used to the sound of a heartbeat. It soothes them.”

“Huh.”

He took it back and flipped a switch. The beating sound stopped.

He laughed at the two of us staring down at the little lamb. Then he left.

Case of the Possessed Couch solved.