Last night I sat in a dark corner crying.
I made a mistake. I didn’t pick the Hovel. If I had picked some place less nice to live maybe I could have had Gus and Pshaw there too.
I just keep thinking they spent the night wondering what they did wrong when they tried so hard to be good, really good dogs. Why would their people abandon them? Are they waiting for us to come back?
My dad had a collie dog once that died waiting for him to come back. How my dad must have cried when he had to leave that dog behind. You know, I never thought of it before but I bet that dog was waiting for him when he got to the Gate. I just bet. And I bet my dad was happy, is happy with that old dog by his side now.
We left both dogs with someone really kind and lovely. I just pray Gus can love her as much as he did me and vice versa, that work and friendship with her will help him move on so he doesn’t even miss me. I’m sure it helps that Pshaw is there too.
If you can find it in your heart I’d appreciate a little kneemail on their behalf. Maybe mine too, although I don’t feel like I deserve it.
An old cowboy and an old cowgirl with holes in their hearts tonight, holes in the places where two of the best collies were held so dear.
I can hardly stand it.
Praying works. You know that right.
We’ve been praying so hard for someplace for Pojke and Rosie, Pshaw and especially I’ve been worrying about Gus.
An angel appeared on the other end of the phone line. She said the dogs could stay with her till we found them homes. I nearly cried.
Home, sort of. At least we’re moving back to the prairie.
Me and Blue, and some boxes of treasures. Good old, bald, dry, forever horizons, prairie. I could jump out of the truck and kiss the ground.
Usually my favorite day of the week. Not even the sabbath could cheer me up today.
Not sure how to spell that. Never thought of it much till yesterday.
I had a little ray of hope, a job interview. Impressive in ways, good looking cattle (calves tagged from a Gator) a very well thought out barn (for a feedlot), the small Grizzly bear hide hanging in the bosses office that he said he had shot in his yard, the stack of apple wood he hauled in from BC to fuel the pizza oven in his house, the team of clydes he broke himself. A diversified farming, purebred cattle, small feedlot operation, very progressive.
I was trying to see us there until we discussed horses and dogs. I was a little surprised by his comment about “horses being the crack of the ag industry”. Maybe, but not for a working cowboy, they are his bread and butter. His horses and dogs are every bit as valuable to him as any high powered John Deer tractor is to men in the ag industry. More valuable, I wonder how many John Deer tractors have every saved a guys life.
And a big fancy house was tempting considering our current moldy housing situation but what good is it if an old dog isn’t allowed in.
No cowboy life ever happens without a wreck or two. We’ve had our share with bulls and buck-offs and such. Physical wrecks all of them. Thank heavens bodies mend, even if only mostly.
Emotional wrecks we aren’t quite as familiar with although since leaving the prairie it just seems to be one emotional wreck after another.
I’m afraid parting with Gus hurts bad, that little pup who picked me 3 years ago. He’s been a good friend, a good help, if a little protective which I confess I kind of appreciated. I think I may have found him a working home. Either him or Pshaw, we’ll have to see which suits this lady best.
This time it is me that’s the wreck. I can hardly stand the thought of missing him.
My (ex-)cowboy alway wanted a mule.
I heard a lot about mules but we have never owned one, in large part because of me. We just about owned a zonkey once. That’s a Zeebra/donkey cross.
At a horse auction one time they brought one in with a pack saddle snubbed up tight to a big sturdy gelding. The idiot I’m married to bid $50. I about had a fit. Luckily the lady behind us bid $100. After the auctioneer said sold he asked her how long she had been happily married. She told him and he hinted that was about about to end (because of her purchase of this zonkey.
But that’s not the story I was really thinking off. Somewhere I read about using mules down in mines. They said horses couldn’t stand it so they used mules. The writer said hoisting them down in to the mine was a tricky business and he always felt sad to see them go down knowing they would never see daylight again. They would die down there.
He said mules would do it but they always had something they insisted on: being fed at a precise time, or only worked so long, maybe it was something as simple as the handle on their water bucket being turned the same way. If they had what they wanted the would suffer the conditions in the mine and do the work. If not, well they couldn’t be forced to do anything.
I’m kind of feeling part mule, like there are certain things I have to have: Blue and Pic.
So, my cowboy’s thinking about giving it all up. That hit me hard. He always said the only way would be in a box.
I always envisioned him really old, sitting in the kitchen, me mad over him wearing his muddy cowboy boots and his cowboy hat on saying he wouldn’t take it off cause his head was cold but me knowing it was because he still wanted to be a cowboy even though he was too old to sit a horse anymore. Instead he wants to die a fat bellied truck driver? What the heck?
So to do that, means I go live in an apartment in which most of the furniture won’t even fit. I keep Blue but find a home for Gus, barn cats, sell horses (I’m not parting with Pic!), I suppose saddles. Instead of thousands of acres to ride on, I’ll be getting my exercise walking on a sidewalk.
Not sure how to survive that haulacost. It’s a lot of giving up.
I guess we all have them for one reason or another. What a blessing sleep is. And Louis Lamour novels. It’s the only time I can read them. A little romance, a little cowboy stuff, a little prairie, it’s all good.