My cowboy and I had a conversation today about spurs and we were both in agreement.
I have a pretty cute pair, not real silver or expensive but nice ones. Put the spots on the straps myself, the rowels are big and kind, and the jingle bobs have a real sweet ring. Like most folkes I guess I always dreamed about a fancy pair. But I found out that wearing them is a whole different deal.
I preface this by saying I know nobody likes to get hurt but for most folkes the ambulance isn’t all that long away. For the ones out in the middle of nowhere it is a lot more serious, maybe even life and death. Luckily my lesson about spurs came when I was having a phone call away kind of day and I didn’t even need to make the call.
I was dallied up when Tom started to buck and I let go of it all just before I hit the ground. He wacked me good on the back of my thigh on the way down and I layed there a while holding both hands around my leg. I managed to get up fairly quick and went to catch my horse when I noticed my right boot had come off. Odd, I thought. It wasn’t far from where I had been laying. I put it on and walked over to Tom who was standing there wondering if he was in trouble or what. I don’t much like a horse that kicks but . . .
When I went to get on I noticed the marks on my saddle. A perfect Rowell roll all the way across the seat of my saddle and down most of the fender. I shuddered when I realized that my spur had hung up and that’s why my boot had come off. I hung those pretty spurs up and never wore them again and never missed them except for the sweet little ringing sound of the jingle bobs; I did like that (my cowboy not so much).
Maybe someone can explain their value to me other than the prettyness. For my part I just say: dangerous dang things.