One morning Howard was tending to his artificial insemination program and had to drive to town. He asked Cheryl to ride through the cows to check for those in heat. He left Cannonball saddled up in the barn.
Cheryl was the kind of horsewoman who rode when it was necessary. However, she had little interest in learning more than the basics: get on, go straight, turn or stop.
The equivalent of a motorcar driver who doesn’t change flats or drive anything with a clutch and never thinks of checking the oil. She assumes someone else worries about that stuff.
She puffed out to the barn in her down coat, mud boots, mittens and stocking cap. Using a block for a stool, she climbed aboard. Cheryl trusted Cannonball. Howard was proud of his new saddle, custom made by Bob Schild in Blackfoot. It was heavy and still squeaked.
Out amidst the cows, they trod purposefully and soon spotted one showing signs of estrus. Cheryl approached the cow, leaned out over the right side to read the tag, and the saddle slipped fast as a fireman down a flagpole.
She was under Cannonball’s belly with one foot still in the stirrup, hung up and completely upside-down.
From her precarious position, she eyed Cannonball. She had thoughts of being drug to death or paralyzed. Had she written her will? Who will raise her children? And, “Did I leave anything simmering on the stove?” flooded her mind.
Fast-forward 20 minutes. Cheryl had extracted herself unhurt. She could not figure out how to undo the saddle, so she unbuckled, unsnapped, untied and unwrapped every attachment she could find until it fell to the ground. The trusty Cannonball watched the whole process with resignation and patience.
It took three trips, but she managed to drag the horse, saddle tree and all the pieces back to the barn. When she told Howard her story he said, “My gosh! Why didn’t you check the cinch?”
She plopped her hands on her hips and said indignantly, “Now who in the world would ever think of that?” 
