If our wives had picked their husbandswith the care we buy a bullThere’d be a lot morebachelors on the street.

Have you ever been embarrassed by your good dog? Me either. I’ve got a good dog. An Australian shepherd with one blue eye, and I believe he loves me. I believe I love him. He’ll go with me anywhere.

Have you ever been embarrassed by your good dog? Me either. I’ve got a good dog. An Australian shepherd with one blue eye, and I believe he loves me. I believe I love him. He’ll go with me anywhere.

Sharon had hauled the old piano home in a stock trailer. It came out of the Miner’s Club in Mountain City where, according to the bartender, it had set since the early ’30s.

Yer lookin’ at a feller with no tennis shoes, a ’76 GMC pickup, an outhouse and a learning permit for a cellphone. But, lest you lump me into that group of stodgy ol’ dinosaurs who cling to the days of Garth Brooks, pygmy Angus and real spare tires, let me assure you I have stepped boldly into the modern world of manly footwear.

It’s coming. Political correctness in the animal kingdom. I have conferred with those fervent homogenizers of the once colorful and descriptive English language to formulate the following list:

Mac told me a harrowing tale about losing a loaded six-horse trailer off the back of his pickup. He admitted he knew the ball was too small – but it wasn’t far to go; it was gettin’ dark; the kids were restless; it was a new moon; the tide was running out; his hat was too tight – whatever the excuse he needed to justify not changing the ball.

Well, it’s dog days in the feedlot now that summer’s nearly doneI been loafin’ through the cattle but the steers don’t suffer none

Betty said her dad had a bull that kept jumpin’ the fence. She wondered if I knew any surefire cures for fence-jumpin’ bulls. I asked her what they’d tried already.

I was the veterinarian for a livestock company in the Northwest. We had 10,000 cows on six ranches in five states with a progressive, well-managed cow-calf operation. The year was 1976.