Talk about takin’ a beating. I stood on the porch at Dale’s horse farm and soaked up the view. It was deep springtime in west Tennessee. The grass was so green it hurt your eyes.

It’s funny how the world goes around. Francisco and I were checking cows, making a big circle early in the morning to beat the heat. It’s peaceful out there.

Let’s put in a good word for the feedlot cowboy. That group of fellers who meet every mornin’ early at the horse barn, saddle up, get their instructions and ride off down the alley.

It was a fairly nice day for Cut Bank in early April. A little breeze blowin’ off the reservation, the sun about the color of skimmed milk and the creek startin’ to show the runoff.

To supplement farm income, some get their wives jobs in town. Others expand their hobbies (i.e., making saddles, braiding horsehair or running for county commissioner). Some, in desperation, get a real estate license.

I read somewhere the average “practice life span” of a large-animal vet is eight years. After they quit L.A. practice, they go into small-animal practice, government work, industry, university, research or some other less hazardous profession.

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.

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: