Help me unload the truck. Drive me over to the hayfield. Chase this sick heifer across the lot and into the chute to be doctored. The trouble is, once he’s got me, he can’t resist adding, “And while you’re here ...”

This is how “Grab a bucket of grain and lead this bunch of horses through that gate” turns into “Oh, and while you’re here, we need to sort off that Corriente bull.” But of course the Corriente bull doesn’t want to be separated from his nice little herd of cows, so it takes three laps around the corral in knee-deep snow to get him out. And since we weren’t planning to chase anything, we didn’t bring the four-wheeler, so when he takes off for the open gate to the hay lot, I have to flounder after him on foot. You can guess who won that race. And since Dad was in the middle of feeding the cows, the gate from the hay lot into the pasture was open too, so the bull ended up right where he started, smirking at me from behind the cows.

The second time he was wise to us, so it took eight laps around the corral to pry him away from the cows. But I got smarter too and scrambled through the fence and waded through the snowdrifts in the hay lot to cut him off before he could jump the now-closed gate. Then the dog and I trudged behind him all the way to the top of the lane, where he got 10 feet from that open gate and ducked back. Greg cut him off with the pickup halfway down; the dog and I got around him again, plowed through the drifts, skidded across the ice patches and finally pushed him into the pasture.

A mere hour and a half after agreeing that I did indeed have five minutes to spare, I staggered into the house and collapsed into an exhausted heap on the couch.

You would think I’d learn. But no. This week, I fell for it again. We’d moved the early-calving cows home where we could keep a close eye on them, and once again, there were horses in the way.

“When you’ve got a few minutes, would you go put those horses in the outdoor arena?” Greg asked.

Knowing he still had an hour’s worth of chores and only 45 minutes of daylight, I agreed. The horses eagerly followed me and my bale of hay into the arena. But then I realized the gate I had to open so they could go to water was drifted shut. I hustled over to the barn, grabbed a shovel and got it cleared just as Greg backed the pickup up to the feed shed.

And that’s how a five-minute “no problem, honey” turned into unloading a ton of 50 pound bags of cattle mineral in the dark. Once again I dragged my rear into the house over an hour after the promised few minutes. But this time, the lesson stuck. I am not going to fall for that line.

Oops. Gotta run. But I’ll be back in a few minutes, as soon as I help ...  

Kari Lynn Dell is a third-generation cowgirl, horse trainer and rodeo competitor. She writes from her family ranch on Montana's Blackfeet Reservation. For information on her novels, short stories and other writing projects, visit her website.

PHOTO: It’s not my fault my husband can’t tell time, and neither can the cows. That’s how the five-minute lie starts. Photo by Kari Lynn Dell.