“Them that don’t know him won’t like him
And them that do sometimes won’t know how to take him
He ain’t wrong, he’s just different
But his pride won’t let him do things to make you think he’s right”
Name that tune. It’s from the old late '70s country music classic by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson, "Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys." While I’m not particularly fond of all of the lyrics of the song because I think, to some extent, the message of the song makes a stereotypical caricature of my chosen profession and way of life, I’ve always had a fondness for these specific lines in the song.
I like to be liked, and quite frankly, it seems to bother me when I catch wind that someone may not like me. In this respect, I’m probably not really unique in the world. I’d venture to guess that in a survey of 10 or 20 or 100 randomly selected people at any given Alberta livestock show, BC bull sale, Montreal rock concert or “save the rainforest” protest in downtown Toronto, upward of 90% of respondents would answer in the affirmative when asked if they would prefer to be liked, as opposed to being disliked. I submit, however, that there is a very high likelihood that a good share of the hypothetical respondents to our hypothetical survey would find that they may be highly disliked by a significant number of their fellow hypothetical survey respondents, depending on which particular demographic group they may be numbered in.
For example, I’m sure one wouldn’t have to search long to find several green-loving vegans at the Toronto protest who would have a strong distaste for probably every one of the beaver felt Resistol-wearing bidders at the bull sale far to the west of their party in the streets of Toronto. And, no doubt, the disdain would be eagerly reciprocated by the BC cowboys.
Indeed, even within our own ranks – and by that, I mean those of us who eat and raise and love cows, and are most likely on the correct side of most every social or environmental argument – there are disagreements, sometimes strong ones. To wit: Black hide or red hide? Continental or English? Low birthweight or heavy weaning weight? Show ring or range cattle? So, with that in mind, I’d have to assume that there are quite possibly people within my own tribe who may not like me. That’s kind of a sobering thought, because as we’ve already established, I like to be liked.
So this vexing situation poses a question or two. First of all, how could you not like me? (That’s not really one of the questions, but I thought I’d throw it out there since this is my story.) Aside from my fragile ego and self-esteem, there are a couple of legitimate thoughts that I think are worth pondering.
First thought: Why does it matter if some people don’t like me? I’ve thought about this question often. I’ve usually never pondered on it for long because there are probably several different answers, some of which may be more complex than I wish to analyze. In addition to the strain it may place on the pondering portion of my brain, I may not really like the answers. Hence the brevity of my pondering. The complexity of my pondering aside, I really think the best answer is quite simple, and that answer is – brace yourself for this: It doesn’t matter if some people don’t like me. If they don’t like me, neither of us is probably benefiting from a sour relationship, so fretting about it and trying to make it something that it isn’t is probably a waste of energy that would be better spent elsewhere.
Second thought: I like this one better than the first thought, even if it may, to some degree, be little more than a pipe dream. I can’t help but think that much of the reason we may not like each other is because we don’t know each other. “Them that don’t know him won’t like him …”
I know. It’s a corny, somewhat trite idea that’s been tossed about since Cain and Abel, yet it’s a concept with merit. Granted, there’s often a monstrous chasm between those of us who are right and everybody else, but just think about it. If, for instance, an Angus guy can stretch his imagination and admit that there may be some validity to the claim that a little bit of Hereford could actually add some heterosis-based value to a cow herd, before you know it, a central Alberta cowboy is sharing a big plate of beef poutine with a tatted-up, long-haired professed vegetarian at the Stampede. If you know him, you may like him. It could happen …
