“Sure,” I said. It was a warm spring day—hayfever season for some of us—and the neighborhood kids were chasing each other through the street and surrounding yards. Not wanting to take my eye off the space between child and truck, without thinking, I blew my nose— with one finger.

Before the sun was up, the old-timer had cut the stallion’s track on a wide circle. He followed and found the big bay snoozing in the rimrock as the sky was getting light. Working slowly and quietly, using juniper trees as cover, he and his ranch-tested filly tiptoed to within 400 yards of the stallion.

A while back, my wife and Fortunately the waitress I were invited to a friend’s was used to dealing with the Angora goat shearing. I was public—especially the ec- given the distinctive hon centric ones. Politely, she or—at least, that’s what explained that she’d marked they told me—of being the my drink with a chocolate designated mugger.

After going through the bills and getting the bad news, my wife and I opened the strange envelope and got a surprise: two crisp $50 bills. There was an unsigned note, which said the person sending us the money had prayed and received a message that we could use the cash more than he could.

Over the years, I’ve seen horsemen work with their horses, but never experienced it. A long time ago, I gave it a try from the ground up. I adopted a young colt from the Bureau of Land Management. He was born deep in the desert of the Great Basin and had likely never seen a human before the gathering.

Tom was new in town. at the bull's head. After This ranch foreman and shaking the dog off, the bull stock dog trainer was get- would pile drive it to the ting the lay of the land with bottom of the pond. Quickly, his family at his new place Tom called them off.

She�s a little bit of a thing, doesn�t weigh as much as a big bag of dog food. This Aussie/Border Collie cross is short on cow skills, long on sheep, and her favorite thing in the world is an unruly hog. Ordinarily, I�d never think of her as a theft target�except for one thing� packrats.

Dear WLJ Editor: I apologize for missing the deadline on my monthly Bull Tales column. I was preoccupied at the time. You see, I was headed into my office when I spotted a plume of smoke a couple miles southeast of my place.

For us, this has been a rugged winter. I know this because I have my tractor mechanic’s phone number memorized. This is not speed dial—we’re talking memorized and available at a moment’s notice. In my old age, I might forget my own phone number, but his is burned in my memory. One day, he and I were sipping coffee at a restaurant in town and discussing options for my aged backhoe.

Its not commonly known in all parts of the country, but yours truly takes photographs. Ive spent years chasing around the Pacific Northwest taking pictures of rural and agricultural people in all sorts of situationssome dire, others, proud and happy.