As a veterinarian, I get the pleasure of working with cattlemen from North Dakota down to Nebraska. They come in all types, from the quiet, introspective guy to the story-telling cowboy you can’t hardly get a word in edgewise.

Last Saturday Craig and I competed in a Ragnar race. In this variation of the Ragnar, our team of four completed the equivalent of a marathon before sunset, with each of us running 3.5 miles in two different legs.

Although video sales are gaining a foothold on the cattle trade, most calves still transfer from rancher to feeder through a sale barn. And if there is a sale, it is a requirement that there is a veterinarian on site.

She came barreling into the house, breathless. “Call Daddy right away. Bud is running up the lane.” Taking a gulp of air, she continues, “His saddle’s still on and is bleeding really bad and, and I think he is hurt really bad. Please hurry, call Daddy.”

It takes a special kind of person to be a veterinarian. Not special like the kind of person that fosters troubled kids or dedicates their life to ending world hunger, but the kind of special that makes you wonder where the wiring went a bit awry in the ol’ noggin.

When I worked at Farm Credit, I’d categorize my ranching customers based on my perception of their potential profitability in an attempt to get a “feel” for the kind of finance relationship I could expect.

I passed an old motor home on the highway the other day with a bumper sticker that read “Mamaw and Papaw’s playhouse.” Randomly plastered on the sides and rear end of the motor home was a large collection of “official state stickers” (purchased at the same places that sell “official state souvenir spoons.”) That motor home looked an awful lot like some of the cows we see at the sale barn.