Working cows means something different in each part of the world. Here in the South Central Texas brush, it means wandering around horseback with hounds, trying to find the cows in brushy areas, deep ravines, and on the other side of a hill. That’s different from South Texas where you sit on a horse waiting for the barking to change and come toward you as the dogs move some demonic long eared man haters with antlers three feet wide out of thorn thickets so tight that even snakes and lizards have to move with caution.
Sometimes I remember with fondness my days in the Panhandle where your vision was only limited by the curvature of the earth. With no terrain, and no vegetation other than short Grama grass, you could see cows seven miles away. If you stood on a tuna fish can, like Mac Davis said, you could see them at fourteen miles. Then he added, if you stood on a number ten pineapple juice can, you could see all the way around the world to the back of your own head! OK, that’s as absurd as the hippie who was a little impaired when he patted his hands around the light pole and wailed
“Oh my God, I’m walled in! “
I guess my favorite was the time several of my friends were working for a well-known cowboy/rancher near here, and they were taking it pretty serious, worrying about corralling a bunch of pretty wild and salty escaping heifers. He said “I don’t know what you boys are worried about, them heifers ain’t going nowhere, the United States is surrounded by water!