I’m not allowed to name dogs. More than 50 years ago, we were given a border collie cross puppy and I named him “Sour Mash.” That came from a popular country song of the time about a fellow working for an irascible moonshiner, running sour mash across a county line.
My wife said that no one gets to name anyone or anything without first standing on the back porch and shouting the name 20 times. Our current longtime family dog was answering to “Feather” before I decided on a proper name. She has a white mark on her forehead that looks like a feather.
Nikki skipped school one day to ride with to Howe, Idaho, and handle a border collie puppy we’d been given on the way home. Halfway home we stopped at a rest area for a puppy potty break. It was snowing and blowing. His only interest was getting back in the truck.
A free dog showed up on our doorstep a while back. A beautiful German shepherd cross with some husky showing up. The dark markings around his eyes, typical of a husky, shows up on him, kinda like a “Zorro” mask. He’s answering to “Bandit" and he’s officially my dog now. He’s low-key to the point of being timid. He doesn’t want to join us inside the house, but he’s underfoot in the shop. I’m not allowed to work on any project outside without his big nose pulling the inspection detail.
Decades ago, hauling hay into northern Nevada in the late spring of the year before the cattle were sent to eat on the range …
As we descended a grade, a band of cows started toward the road. I started braking hard and thought they’d get the hint when I blew the air horns, but no, they had in mind that this was just a different feed wagon. One red-and-white idiot walked right in front of the truck just before I came to a stop. The impact booted her off the road and knocked off one of her stub horns.
I got out of the truck to check for damage, and I’m afraid I’ll have to admit I named that bovine several uncomplimentary names that won’t pass the “safe to print” test. Her horn had hit the center of the grill of the truck and pushed it in until it had slightly deformed some fins on the radiator. Thankfully, there was no coolant leak. I was so mad that if I’d had my pistol in a holster instead of stowed in the sleeper, I’d have shot the cow.
The cows went back to looking for food, and I continued delivering hay without further incident.
Another trip, we’d made it to the ranch at Tuscarora, Nevada, well after dark, and as planned, camped in the trucks and unloaded the next morning. When we arose, there was some commotion in one of the huge old barns. It was winter, and all but the main roads were snow-covered.
In the process of harnessing the draft horses which pulled the feeding sleigh, one lady wasn’t responding. We helped them roll her over, shifting her position to help her get her feet underneath her so she could stand. They used all the tricks they knew to get her to stand. They were concerned the mare had colic.
After working with her for close to an hour, she turned her head, and still lying down, grabbed a mouthful of hay from a nearby bale and proceeded to chew it up. An unexpected blue streak of vocabulary erupted from the head wrangler followed by the explanation that the horse was just fine. She just didn’t want to get up yet and was demonstrating that they couldn’t make her.
The ranch crew rattled off all the reasons they fed on snow with a team rather than a tractor. Other than the experience of the current morning, the horses would start no matter how cold the night had been. Once in the feeding area, they would walk in the correct direction, so both the cowboys could throw hay. They seemed to sense what was hidden under the snow and had never pulled the sleigh into a gully or boulder.
Closer to home, as we finished stacking and as we proceeded to stow the elevator, notice some kids, I’m guessing in the 5 to 7 years old range, playing with a puppy. I called out to them that they had a really nice kitten. They, incensed, tried to correct me that it was not a kitten but a dog. This teasing went back and forth for a couple of minutes. Then I called out to the puppy, slapping my thigh and whistling, as I called, “Here, kitty kitty kitty.”
The puppy came to me. “See? It’s a cat!” They retrieved their puppy and left.
