Moving our herd of Corriente cattle from the west pasture to the front pasture, I noticed that one red and white cow hung back. She was about a quarter of a mile away, at a nearly depleted round bale. I went down to investigate. There, curled up on the hay, was a black and white spotted heifer calf. She was brand-new, and “fresh from the oven.” I noted the mama’s tag number, 402, in my little tally book (my cell phone, these days). Then I started slowly moving her toward the gate to follow the herd. Another spotted calf was about a yard back from the gate looking through the fence at his mom. His stance, when I tried to push him the additional 3 feet, said

“no, mama’s right there, see!?”  

As 402 walked to and through the gate, he followed her, and “mothered up” on the other side.  Another wreck averted. Whew! It was like my grandma used to say,

“more by luck than sense.”

When all the new baby calves settled in the fresh, tall, spring grass, all of different colors, guarded by the babysitter cow, it put me in mind of a basket of Easter eggs.

Now that I’m beginning to see a few wildflowers poke their faces out of the winter grass, I’m forced to believe that spring has sprung. I guess I’ll have to change my wardrobe! Of course I’ll still be wear’n my high-top boots with attached spurs, and for a few more weeks my sweat stained, old felt work hat. And, well, I’ll still be pulling on the same old Levi’s. But at least I’ll be changing from heavyweight cotton shirts to lightweight cotton shirts. And I’ll probably find little need for the canvas-duckin’ blanket lined jumper and silk neck scarf. Yeah, I guess it’s true, a cowboy’s wardrobe don’t vary great deal with the seasons, unlike folks in town.

We’ll also be looking to start spring gatherings soon. That’s when we push up the cow herd, and rope out the calves to vaccinate, brand and eartag’em.

The “little boy calves” will get “brain surgery”

–and we’ll have mountain oysters for supper!

This year we’ve got to figure out how to deworm the cow herd. You see, gett’n cows with a four or five foot wingspan of ivory into a standard squeeze chute is a puzzle without an easy solution. Some infidel went so far as to suggest:

“why don’t you just dehorn’em?”

But, I think them antlers sure do dress’em up kind of purty!

One fall I took a trip with a friend over to his ranch near Van Horn, Texas. In those days it took about 13 hours to get there, and we were pulling a stock trailer load of saddle horses, for ranch replacements.

We arrived on a late September night. The sky was velvety black, the stars so bright they didn’t even twinkle, and the cool, dry air had an aroma unique to the area, probably creosote bush and broom weed. Compared to Central Texas, humid heat it was heaven.
The next morning we arose to several inches of snow and a 30° temperature drop. We saddle horses in a dark, cold barn. John Mays got on his gray gelding who promptly gave an eye watering exhibition of how to mistreat a cowboy. John stayed on, and I mounted up on Black Jack, to head out to the pasture with ropes and medicines to doctor “Floridas,” the yearling steers that trucks had delivered the day before. After we roped and doctored a few, in the snow and mud, John lit up a cigarette and sat back on his gray in the shelter of the corral fence and soliloquized:

“I coulda’ been working in a nice, warm, dry grocery store for my father-in-law, but no, I had to go and be a COWBOY!”