Beau has been fairly tolerant of the puppy, Gus. And Gus idolizes Beau, imitating him and trying to play with him.
Beau draws the line at sharing bones. When I give them each their own chew toys, Beau’s morality does not prevent him from taking the puppy’s from him.
They are still pals, but someday the roles might be reversed. Gus is going to be a big’un.
Our poor cat, Camo, is learning to stay off the ground, out of reach of the puppy, Gus. Pictured here, the cat is on the hot tub. The puppy is exploring means to ascend there.
Cats are, they say, curious. This one is fascinated by the puppy. He likes to be around the puppy, but far enough away to not get harrassed.
In time, they will work it out.
Walked out in the pasture
To clear my mind
To enjoy God’s outdoors
Walking alone through the grass
When I heard the hoof beats.
Two geldings ran up to me
Inquiring about my presence
And whether I needed friends.
I did need their acceptance
And their comfort.
They each sniffed my hands
And my hair, letting me pet them
Even hugging their necks.
It feels good to know they care.
One can have a relationship
With horses as well as dogs.
There are tall tales about Pecos Bill, a famous Texan, like my own trophy wife, Miss Sugar. This here is a true tale about what I done, just like old Bill. I done it at the urging of Miss Sugar. I’d do anything for that gal.
The reason I am writing this now is that a good friend of mine called me to say he enjoyed reading Sharpshooter, which is a true story as well. His only question was why I used any tool to kill that rattler I wrote about. He asked that because, growing up with me and all, he is very aware of how quick I am. So is Miss Sugar. That got me thinking about what I done a few years back without no shovel, nor gun either.
If y’all have read some of my previous posts, you know that Miss Sugar and I live in a log cabin in Colorado. Miss Sugar loves birds. She feeds ’em and takes pictures of ’em. Well, one time some birds built a nest on a light fixture above our front door. It was pretty smart of them bird brains cuz that light is beneath our porch roof out of the rain. Miss Sugar occasionally checked on the eggs in the nest and, after they hatched, she would hold a mirror above the nest so she could look at the baby birds per the photo above.
Well, one fine day as she checked on the bird nest, she saw something that bothered her a mite. What she seen was a mean old snake climbing on the logs aiming toward them baby birds. So, since I’m her hero and all, as reported in previous posts, she decided to casually mention to me that it appeared a snake was fixin to bother her favorite birds.
I caught her subtle drift. As always, I come a runnin’. What she had carefully described in colorful language was indeed true. A damned snake was slithering up the house to the nest. I did not have time to get a gun or tool. My favorite gal was upset. So I did what any fearless hero would do. I grabbed that snake by the tail, swung it around and around with centrifugal force so it could not bend back and bite me. I knew what to do because I had read about Pecos Bill doing the same thing.
After a few swings around my head, Miss Sugar suggested that I quit showing off and let go. Which I done. I let go with an appropriate wrist motion, sending that snake off the porch a ways, where it landed on the ground. I went down the porch steps to finish the job. Miss Sugar confidently assured me that it was a bullsnake, not a rattlesnake. They have similar patterns. She called her brother Mike because he knows about stuff like that. He agreed that it was surely a bullsnake.
Now there is a difference or two. One is that bullsnakes do not have rattles. Another is that they are not poisonous.
So I went over to the bullsnake. Apparently, it held a grudge. It coiled up, imitating a rattler. It was so good at imitating that I imagined I could hear rattles. It opened its mouth and flicked out its forked tongue in a threatening manner, revealing its fangs that Mike and Sugar knew were not poisonous. Silly me. I felt like a big old chicken.
If I was as brave as Pecos Bill, I’d of picked it up again, just for fun. But since I already had saved the birds, I kilt it with that sharpshooter shovel I wrote about in my blog called Sharpshooter.
I cut the rattles off the bullsnake because everyone knows bullsnakes don’t have rattles. This one had not gotten the memo. At least it wasn’t poisonous. That could have been dangerous.
What Pecos Bill did was very dangerous. What I done was similar, but, like Mike told Sugar, was perfectly safe. Those rattles almost fooled me.
This is a re-blog of a story that fits the subject matter of Deadly Dangers at Cross Creek Ranch, yesterday’s post.
My trophy wife, Sugar, was outside with the dogs while I watched Chisum. As it turned out, viewing the John Wayne movie was a good way to prepare for my imminent deadly showdown.
I heard my wife’s alarming scream. Then she called out to me, “Al, come out here. Hurry!” I moseyed up from the couch, ever obedient, ever vigilent.
I still did not know what she was frightened about. (Girls can be overly dramatic and mysterious). I empathetically inquired about what was troubling her. Her response was not responsive to my question. She uncalmly commanded, “Get a gun.” Well, that was the main idea. She was much more eloquent.
As an aside, in order to give some background to the scenario, I want you, gentle readers, to be informed that Sugar grew up in Texas. Also, she is of Italian extraction. You may combine your prejudiced stereotypes as you imagine her emotional communication.
Further, Sugar’s…
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Beau’s trip to E.R., described in my prior post, reminded me of another Yellow Lab’s experience at a summer party.
It was high noon. Miss Sugar, my trophy wife, was fussing in the kitchen when she hollered, “Big Bronc, they’re coming! Lots of ‘em. You better be ready. I’m gittin plumb nervous.”
Soon they commenced to coming up our lane to the ranch house. Dozens of folks arrived in waves. We was surrounded.
Me and Texas Bob took our stations, him by the cantina, me peeking out from inside the house. We was ready, providin’ there warn’t too many of ‘em. I lost count at 65. That seemed about right for me and the little woman and Texas Bob.
Also, Texas Bob had brung a woman with him, as was his way. She was a spunky redhead, a fancy dresser, name of Ginger. I’d seen her before. Once down in Fort Worth Stockyards, at the Cattlemen’s Club, Bob and Ginger was there with me and Sugar and…
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We woke to snow and it kept coming all day. What do we care?
We have wood to burn. I think there is plenty of propane in the tank. We paid the electric bill. And have a generator too. We have hay in the barn. We have groceries, including dog food and cat food. If we brush off the satellite dishes, we have internet and TV.
I still have to go outside. The horses rely on me to throw them hay and fill the heated stock tank with water. They appreciate my care. We have relationships. They have independent personalities. On the other hand, the barn cats, who also have personalities, are less appreciative. Rather, they believe that they are entitled. They scold me when they should be worshiping me. I doubt many barn cats have a covered bed heated by an electric blanket.
A snow plow went up our country road. We could get to the highway if there were not drifts on the lane. But we don’t need to go to town. I got a call that the Rural Land Use Advisory Board meeting was cancelled.
I shoveled off the deck three times but it does not appear that mattered. It is deep with snow again. An avalanche slid off the steep metal roof.
Sugar made soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and we had leftover ziti and Italian green beans for supper.
Being snowed is kinda fun. Especially with Miss Sugar.
The NFL deadline for teams to sign free agents has passed and I remain an unsigned free agent. Therefore, I will not be playing in SuperBowl 50. Nevertheless, I will be watching intently, wearing my Peyton Manning #18 jersey, which I was wearing while I watched the Broncos defeat the New England Patriots for the AFC Championship. I am glad to help in that way.
The NFC champs, the Carolina Panthers, are favored by the Las Vegas oddsmakers. Peyton and I do not worry about that. We will just do what we have to do to win.
Despite being unsigned by the Broncos, I do not hold a grudge. There is always next year to make the roster. In the meantime, I have explained to my supportive wife that it is important for me to keep my weight up. I am married to the right woman for that. This weekend Sugar made a wonderful Italian dinner for thirty people. As usual, she overdid it. We have leftovers. I love her lasagna. Therefore, I ate lasagna for breakfast the next day. Breakfast of Champions! And for dinner? The dinner of champions — ziti and bread and a canoli for dessert. Don’t worry Coach Kubiak, I am the perfect weight for an NFL linebacker. Give me a call sometime after the SuperBowl victory. I will be ready for next season.
It happened while the lovely Miss Sugar and I were in the hot tub. (This, by the way, is good writing technique, starting out with a sentence that captures the attention of the reading audience.)
The life of Beau, our male Yellow Lab, is of questionable value today. When I tell you why, you will likely agree that he should be disowned if not strung up.
Chris LeDoux wrote a song called This Cowboy’s Hat about the sacredness of one’s personal cowboy hat, including these words:
“You’ll ride a black tornado across the western skies
You’ll rope an ole blue northern and milk it till it’s dry
Bull dawg the Mississippi, pin it’s ears down flat
Long before you take this cowboy’s hat.”
Beau, living in the home of Chris LeDoux fans, has undoubtedly heard the song and, therefore, has been warned of the consequences of tampering with my favorite hat, pictured hereinafter.
I have treasured this hat for several years. It defined my public image. It made me who I am. Now, thanks to Beau, I am a lesser man who has lost my identity. See below:
After relaxing in the hot tub outside in the courtyard, I noticed that Beau had something in his mouth. It was unrecognizable at first. When I got it from him, I determined that it was my favorite cowboy hat. “Was” is indeed the operative word. It is no longer a hat, at least not a usable one. It has been utterly destroyed, along with my fragile self-esteem. A nearby photojournalist, Miss Sugar, got a picture of the usual suspect caught in the act of vandalism.
The culprit showed no remorse. Repentance is important for me to forgive. Beau wants to pretend nothing happened. There is, as therapists say, “an elephant in the room.” Beau does not want to talk about my hurt feelings. I feel disregarded. He feels just fine.
There is a lesson here. Always wear your cowboy hat in the hot tub.
Shootin' the Breeze 
Top Bronco Fan Status
My wife, Miss Sugar, is a generous and creative person.
But now let’s talk about me, me, me. I might have mentioned in other posts that I am an avid Bronco fan (and unsigned NFL free agent to be signed by the Broncos at a future date which has not yet been disclosed). I have an official NFL jersey identical to that worn by Peyton Manning. I have a Broncos T shirt. I have an NFL Players Association shirt obtained in connection with service on the NFLPA Workers Compensation Panel. I am, as you should have discerned, a pretty big deal.
Sugar is an enabler. She contributes to my delusions. Last week she gave me an early Valentine present — a unique silver cuff made by a Navajo artist. Sugar commissioned the piece of jewelry pictured below. It was made for me, me, me. No one else has one like it. It features the Bronco logo of a horse head. It is beautiful. By wearing it, I am automatically the coolest Bronco fan, thanks to Sugar.
When I am ultimately signed by the Broncos, I will show it to my teammates. They will be envious. But I am used to that.
Wait until they see my hot trophy wife.
Now the problem is — what can I get Sugar for Valentine’s Day?