My father was one of the few I would consider a real cowboy in our neck of the woods. He lived his life on horseback. He made his living breaking colts and worked his butt off every day. If he did find himself bored, he helped out a neighbor with barn chores for a couple of months. He broke out thoroughbreds for jumping barns, started BLM mustangs, roped at his buddies every Thursday night, and was a world show qualifier in timed cattle events multiple times over. He was not a cattleman, cattle were simply a tool for keeping horses trained and the property taxes down. He used to keep a punch or two around to pull the stone boat. He fed all that stock by forking hay onto the stone boat, and forking it off in the pasture, the weather did not matter. It was only after his second bout with cancer that he broke down and bought a skid steer to feed hay with. He drug hoses across the farm to water stock until his couldn't walk anymore, there never was an automatic stock waterer on the place while he was alive. If he could not fix it with his own two hands, he considered it a lost cause. One of the hardest days of his life was putting down his beloved stallion, and eventually we would spread my dad's ashes in that very spot. He counted some very good dogs among his best friends and judged a man by the horse he rode. They just don't make 'em like that anymore....
:cry2:
