Ranch men are notorious for being late. Supper is cold, there are 7,000 acres they could be on, but when do you start to worry and go looking? I just about found out today.
I got home and Newt wandered in the house.
“I had a bad day,” he said. I looked at him. Newt never has a bad day. I can rant and rave about my crummy office job, but not much bothers him.
“Why was it a bad day?” I said, sorting through the mail at the kitchen table.
“Well, I pulled bulls this morning. Our bull was in Hank’s and Carol’s cows again…
(This was the 5th or 6th time Newt has had to get our bull out of their cows. If Hank and Carol weren’t a bull short this year, they probably would have cared more.)
…He went back to our cows fine, but then he wouldn’t leave. Even when I brought the entire herd. I tied him to the windmill.”
“Yes, I see you had a bad bull pull this morning,” I answered. (This isn’t anything new, do bulls ever want to leave a herd of women? No, unless it’s to visit another herd of women.)
Newt continued, “And then I was riding our little red colt to pull the bulls out of the far pasture and he tripped going down a hill…”
I looked up and started paying better attention.
“…and he broke…”
“His leg?!? Is that what the blood on your shirt is from?” I just noticed both sleeves with big bloody spots.
“Nope. We went end over end. I hit my head pretty hard and busted my nose open. The colt broke his neck and died.” DAH!
“Best part was I got to walk all the way back to the house (Newt hates walking). It was a booger pulling the saddle from under him.”
“So we are short a horse?” A bad day.
“But I could have been short a husband?” Beyond a bad day.
