When most men reach their retirement years, they reflect back on their lives and see them differently than when they were living the moment. I find myself in that situation more and more as time goes by. My mind takes me back to moments in the sun when I thought I was invincible. There was a time in my life when I thought I could buckaroo with the best of them. Only to find out that wasn't the case and my ego had been in the way of my brains. The late twenties in a young man's life are all about testosterone, the more you have, the bolder your reaches become.
At that pinnacle in life I was reaching pretty high, in fact, the sky was the only limit I could imagine. I had a beautiful wife and three daughters. This kind of kept me out of the house on occasion if you know what I mean. Malls were just beginning to show up and shopping never really appealed that much to me. So I took to my lives long hobby and immersed myself in the art of horse flesh. Now all horses are not created equal; they vary in size, stature, and breeding. To this, we add confirmation, health, and last but not least the most important factor of all brains. I was raised on a small cow operation in a farming town just to the west of the Rockies. I went to work each day on the farm with my grandfather, and he and my father taught me from a young age how to sit a horse and work cattle. From this early apprenticeship, I developed into the horseman I am today. We had several horses on the farm, and they were cattle working pleasure riding bred. They were stock horses without pedigrees, and all the top titles that can be found on some horses registered paperwork. For the most part, they were quarter horse type in nature with some thoroughbred breeding along the lines. These horses were big and stout, and we used them in very rugged conditions. Back then I thought a horse was a horse. My level of education concerning breeding and sires was limited to what I could read in my monthly subscription to Western Horseman magazine. It wasn't until I met and married my wife that her father Jim educated me on the finer aspects of the horse.
Jim was a connoisseur of finely bred quarter horses. He had mastered the art of purchasing, breeding and showing this excellent breed of horse. He had hauled my wife all over the country to horse shows of all kinds in pursuit of his dream horse. He was always purchasing mares for breeding and show prospects. He would train some and show them in different arenas. His eye for confirmation in this breed type was unequaled in his day. He produced some of the best halter and western pleasure competition horses of the 1970's. Following him in this venture, he trained my eye for the type of horse that represented the breed in all its qualities. I began to look at horses in a different light. I was used to the big ranch horses I had grown up with. Some had long legs and big heads, but they weren't for bragging rights they were for working the ranches and cattle operations that dotted the landscape where I was raised up. This new horse that I was being exposed to was similar in size but very well muscled. They had smaller heads that matched their body size with thick necks and well developed hind quarters. They had more of a bulldog confirmation and very muscular legs. They looked like a much stronger horse when compared to their counterpart half-breeds. Most of the ranch horses I grew up with had mustang blood mixed with quarter horse and thoroughbred breeding. A rancher would get a good looking stud horse and turn it out in a pasture or large range area with a dozen or so mares. The results would be a new crop of colts in a year's time. Bloodlines were not significant, and paperwork seldom existed if any.
These half-breed horses were all over the west when I was growing up. They were sold at local auctions every Saturday. Anyone with one hundred dollars or more could purchase one of these animals. Some were broke to saddle but most were not. Great pains were taken by individuals to train and develop these horses so they could be useful to mankind. It was during this time in life when I started to become picky when it came to selecting horse flesh for my personal use. I stayed clear of the auction block and my method of purchasing one of these fine animals was through negotiations direct with the breeders themselves. Slowly but surely my string of saddle-bred ranch stock horses dwindled out until I was completely without one. Jim had instilled in me the finer points of horsemanship, and I was bound and determined to own one of these show type horses if it was the last thing I ever did. I poured over the pages of Jim's Quarter horse journals studying and reading about this sire and that sire until I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to purchase. Then finally, the time had come to buy a lovely mare. I made the deal with a friend of Jim's. I owned the horse I purchased for many years. She was a perfect specimen of what a quarter horse should look like. She had it all as the saying goes and she was broke real nice to saddle and rein. I owned her until the time we had to put her down due to a lingering illness at the ripe old age of 26.
About the time I was graduating from my apprenticeship in horse flesh sadly, my father in law passed away and took with him a vast knowledge of horses. As I was about to find out, not all are created equal and the old saying, 'Never judge a horse by his appearance' was going to take on a whole new meaning in my life. I was driving home from work one day when I noticed a beautiful looking dun-colored gelding grazing intently in a field nearby. I watched the horse for well over six months. Every time I would pass by he had another pose set up for me to admire him. After a year of this, my mouth was watering, and I just had to inquire about the dun. As luck would have it, he was owned by an acquaintance of mine over the years. I had barely asked when I found out he was for sale. Now this is when all reason leaves a man, and he is left with nothing but a skull full of mush. I don't remember asking the pertinent questions that had been drilled into my brain from the first time I ever purchased a horse. Out the window went common sense and I was left with nothing but a dumb look on my face as I stared at the magnificent specimen of horse flesh standing before me. I was nearly speechless at a time when I should have been asking more questions than a skydiver getting ready for his first jump. Not only did I fail to communicate with the seller I failed at everything I had been taught when it comes to purchasing horsehide over the years. My mind could not get over the fact that this horse was a perfect specimen of his breed. He had it all, an excellent head with well-muscled jowls, a thick well-developed chest, hindquarters wider than the Missouri river and straight, thick legs with nice hard black hooves. His withers were well developed, and his neck was creased with muscle lines. He had a dark colored line down his back and a light sandy coated fur. He had clear eyes and a small white patch on the forehead to differentiate him from others of his type. God had created the perfect horse the day this ole boy had taken his first breath of mountain air. He was everything I had been looking at in all the magazines, horse shows and arenas of the western scene.
I needed to find out if I could afford such a quality prize. Well, it turned out that the price was more than I had ever paid for a horse in my life. This was expected under the circumstances and to top it off the year was 1983. This was a large sum of money for this horse especially when you factor in all the little forgotten costs that owning one of these animals can amount to. Here again, common sense is the rule of the day but, somehow mine had disappeared. I was faced with a magical illusion of everything working out and being perfect in my life. Without a second thought, the deal was done, and I put my rope around the prize horse. He just stood there like it was just another day on earth among the human race. Loaded and proud we pulled out of the field and headed down the highway to my barn. Little did I know but we were headed down the path to hell.
On the way to the barn, the realization of the moment finally hit me. Here I was with a dream horse in tow, a checkbook that was flatter than a run over snake and no excuse whatsoever to tell my better half for a moments insanity. Boy, was I in for a dog house vacation of sorts with all the trimmings. Thoughts of sleeping in the truck for a few nights were racing through my mind. Canned stew and chili were the gourmet foods I could expect and all this for an over prized horse. Well as it turned out I had married right, and the tongue lashing I received was just frustration on the home front. All was well and as it turned out I came out of the deal entirely fine when she saw the horse for the first time. She too had been taught the finer things about horse flesh. Standing before her that day the dun put on a mighty fine show.
Thinking back, I am glad that I was smart enough to ask the dealer if he was broke or not. His reply was yes but in my mind that fact didn't register because I was a real buckaroo in those days, or at least I thought. I had broke a few horses in my time, and this old beauty would just need a little refining and some new manners. As it turned out, he was broke real good, and we got along just fine. He was smooth in the saddle, and his manners were excellent. Riding him around the barn and round pen for a few days didn't do him justice for he was ready for bigger and better things. I was on top of the world at that time, and I couldn't get enough of the big dun horse. I rode him all over my home town. Down the railroad tracks around the rodeo grounds through the streets and byways, we went all in big style. He was an eye turner, and I marveled at the attention he would bring as we sashayed down the streets of our town. I think he liked it as well because he would put on a real good show shuffling his fast walk through the parks and parades of the summer activities. It was at this time that I felt like the dun horse was ready for the mountain trails, so I planned a horse ride with my better half.
It was a beautiful sweet morning that July and the mountains were full of wildflowers. I thought I would make a good impression on the wife with a short one hour ride to a nice shady glen that I had in mind. It was secluded and off the beaten trail. A nice picnic was the order of the day. As we saddled up our mounts, I noticed that the dun horse was taking in all the scenery around him with an open eye. He seemed more nervous than I had seen before so I took the saddle time slow and quiet. When we were ready to go, we hit a small trail just off the creek path and followed the trail up through the winding stream course. The runoff was in full swing, and the creek seemed rather full for mid morning. As we came to a junction in the trail, the course took us across the stream and up an embankment to the far side. This obstacle was nothing for any of the horses I had previously owned in my life, so my thoughts were nothing out of the ordinary. I led my wife down through the trail swell to the streams side and paused briefly to look back at her. I instructed her to hold onto the saddle horn and give her mare her head so she could pick her footing as she crossed the creek. I reached up and collected the reins in my left hand and lightly tapped the big dun horse with my left spur and he walked out into the stream of water like a pro. I was just about to look back at my wife when the big horse just collapsed right in the middle of the creek. I went down to his side as if he was dead. I jumped from the saddle, and while still holding the reins in my left hand I held his head out of the rushing stream. He was completely submerged except for his head that I was desperately trying to keep from going under the rushing water. It all happen so fast that I hardly had time to think. I could not get the horse back on his feet no matter how hard I tried. It was like he had laid down to die or something. I have never experienced anything like it and still haven't to this very day. I was beginning to get arm weary and not sure what to do. Here lay my prized horse drowning in a stream that didn't reach his knees when standing. I quickly looked at my wife, Patty. She was horrified and scared beyond belief, so I knew that she couldn't help me. I yelled for her to ride back down the trail to a camp we had passed and get some of my old high school buddies to come to my rescue. With that, she turned the big mare around in the creek and loped her up and away on the trail.
Now there comes a time when things are going from bad to worse, and you need a plan fast. This was one of those times, and the longer I stood in the cold water soaking wet, the weaker I was getting. The water was straight from the snowpack less than two miles away and bitter cold. The big horse lay stretched out like he was enjoying the cold water when a strange thought hit my brain waves. I had seen horses become lathered up with sweat only to try and lay down in the dirt, water or whatever just to rid themselves of the annoying sweat on their fur. Was this dun horse attempting to pull the wool over my eyes on this picnic outing? He was lathered up some and coming up the trail had been a hot one for July. These thoughts and many others were racing through my mind when everything went blank. I couldn't hear the water anymore or anything around me. The thought came to my mind that if the dun horse wanted to lay down in the trail like a wounded jackass and make a spectacle of himself and me, then I would let him have his way. I was cold, shivering, tired and last but not least pissed off. Here were my friends and associates running their horses up the trail to help me and this lazy good for nothing glue bomb was lying here like this was a Saturday night sauna. I thought if he wanted to drown like a dumb mule then so be it and I dropped the reins into the water, and the dun horses head disappeared under the rushing water. No more than a second went by and up he came with a full lung and jumped straight to his feet standing in the stream soaking wet with water dripping from every pore and leather strap attached to his carcass. Staring at me with eyes that asked the question, "Why did you do that I was enjoying the cool bath?" Help arrived, and the only thing I had to show for it was soaked chaps and water logged saddle seat. My friends were laughing their guts out, and I thought I caught a glimpse of a slight smile on behalf of my wife. The picnic was over, and a water-soaked ride was the order of this day all the way back to the truck. My good Tony Lama's were never the same again, and my saddle took twelve cans of soap and many hours just to get the squeaks out. But this was just the beginning of the path the big dun horse and I were about to go down.
I rode the dun horse on many occasions that summer and all went well. We were a team except for the little creek mishap and I had put that small infraction behind us. The more I rode the big horse, the more I liked him. Looking back on it all now the dun seemed to have a quiet mind of his own and was not a come-to-you friendly horse. He would make you go to him in the corral or pasture and then once caught he would comply with your wishes. That fall I was invited to go on a pack trip with some old high school buddies. We were going to ride into a wilderness area in Utah known as the Bookcliffs. The trip would last seven days, and we would be hunting mule deer. I rode the dun horse nearly every day getting him in shape for the hunt. I practiced packing him in case there was a need and tried to get him accustomed to all the things we might experience on the trail. When the time came for the trip, I had decided that he would be my riding horse and that I would pack the big mare that I had owned and trained since a colt. She was steady with the packs and a very reliable all-around horse to have on such an outing.
The trip went off without incident, and we had a good time. I harvested a large mule deer and the trip was a success right up until the last day. We were in camp with about seven other men, horses and mules loading up our camp and preparing to ride out to our trucks. The trip is about five hours long, so we were taking extra care to tighten straps and secure loads on the animals. I would be riding the dun out, so the only thing on his saddle was my friends extra gun scabbard and his rifle. He was going to walk out, and we would take turns riding and leading the mare with my deer carcass on her. The plan was set in motion. We had just finished cutting up the deer and putting it in the packs when my friend walked over to the dun and started tightening up his cinch. The dun horse reached around and snorted a little at the man attempting to tighten him up. I mentioned that he had deer blood on his hands and that I didn't think that horse had ever smelt blood before. The big horse pulled up on the lead rope and jumped, at least, four feet into the air. He started kicking out with his big back feet and knocked my friend to the ground. Then like he had been bred for the arena he launched his massive frame out into the air bucking and squealing, head bobbing and throwing his weight behind each and every jump. The big horse cleared the meadow we were standing in and bucked out of sight as all nine of us just stood there amazed. Wow, that mother can sure buck. We couldn't believe how much air that horse could get with each buck. Along with some bad words, we won't mention here, were repeated over and over that afternoon in the fall mountain setting. Just about the time we had given up ever finding that big horse someone shouted that he was coming right for us! Sure enough, the dun horse was bucking straight back towards where it all started. As he came within arm's length several of us threw up our hands and the sudden motion brought him to a standstill. He just stood there shaking like he had just been chased by the devil and all his hosts. I put out my hand and secured the lead rope, and the circus show was over.
Upon examining the big horse he was none the worse for wear. He didn't have a mark on him. I thought maybe we had made it through this ordeal when my friend let out a shriek as he walked around the horse and examined his rifle sitting in the gun scabbard. The pistol grip and butt on the stock had snapped in two pieces and the only thing holding it to the rifle was the end of the sling. The big horse had bucked so hard that the force had sheared the gun stock in half. We all sat there in silence and awe as I tried to reattach the two pieces in vain. That was the start of the downhill slide for the dun and I should have seen it coming. We made it out of there in one piece, I rode the dun nearly the whole way and he acted like nothing had even happened. It was almost a forgotten subject except for the broken gun.
That winter was a long hard one, and it went down in the record books as one of the worst in Utah history. I usually rode my horses during the winter months to keep them legged up and in shape but that winter was too darn cold and snowy for any riding. This meant that the big dun horse sat in the barn and ate his share of the nice warm hay all winter long and it was a long one. He would earn his keep come spring I kept telling myself as I pitched fork flake after flake of the costly hay. When it warmed up some, I would get all the kinks ironed out of his mangy hide if it was the last thing I would ever do.
Now this is where the story starts to take on a sinister twist. Our family had a reunion out to the canyon that spring as usual. Since we were a horse-riding-cattle-raising bunch naturally, everyone brought their horses out for canyon rides and activities. This had been the case for many years, and we all looked forward to the outing kids and all. It was a very fun time just to let your hair down, let the kids go wild, and the dirt and ticks could all be dealt with later. Spring was in the air, and I remember the smell of the sage in bloom and the cedars as they were budding with berries. That canyon setting was just what I needed after a very long winter's nap. This year had been particularly grand for me because I was about to be a new papa any day and the radar said a son is in the oven. Life was beginning to show some mercy to an old cowboy like me with three daughters in the wind. I'll tell you I felt like I was the king of the hill when presented with the news. My thoughts were on my wife's condition, the kids, and a fun time in the mountains for several days coming up. As I loaded the horses that spring day, I couldn't wait to get into the saddle and free from work for the weekend. It was Memorial weekend, and I had a lovely holiday all planned out with the reunion and all. I should have notice the eyes on the dun and took a special interest in his sassy kick up mood when I put the halter on that morning, but my thoughts were elsewhere.
The reunion was in full swing, and everyone was having a great time. Lunch was served out on a large long table. It had been served that way back from our ancestors when they were riding the range and everyone sat down to a grand meal. It was a fine sunny day, and the kids were in full swing. They were gathering wood, playing games and doing all those precious things that innocent minds do when free and about. The adults gathered together and the past year was in review. Stories were told as we nurtured each other and our families. It was a joyous event, and nothing could spoil the days outing except the weather, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.
My parade that day was about an hour from getting rained on and wiped out, but I had no inclination what awaited me. After the big meal and all the festivities some of the adults had decided it was time to go on our yearly trail ride up the canyon. The horses were saddled and everyone was in motion getting ready for a ride when the big dun began to play his cards. I had just finished saddling the horse, as I stood by his side I remember some of the children playing in the sage out in front of me and talking to my wife by my side. I had just grabbed a handful of reins and mane, put my boot in the stirrup and went to swing my leg over the saddle when the dun pulled his nasty act right in front of the whole crowd. He went straight up into the air with me straddling him horizontally face down. The jump had pushed me straight up with him, but as I came down chest first without stirrups, he was already making his second giant leap. The saddle horn hit me dead center in the sternum, and the last thing I remember was flying through the air with the greatest of ease heading for a patch of twisted, gnarly sage. I put both hands out in front of my head and waited for the crash landing that I knew was heading my way. Being a rodeo hand and bragging about the fact that I was a genuine buckaroo, I hit the deadwood sage patch like a limp sack of flour. I slammed head first with boots still pointing towards the noonday sun. As I looked up, the big horse cleared me with one mighty jump, snorted a defiant blow and nearly run down a cousin of mine playing in the same patch of sage. Quick thinking on the part of that little fellow saved him from a thunder of hooves and mean horse as he dove into the nearby sagebrush. Raising up from the dust the only thing I noticed that was wrong was my pride had vanished, and the buckaroo came back to earth with a resounding thud. But wait, my arm and fingers were numb, and bone was sticking out of my wrist. Now the dun had made his daily play, and he was the winner on this outing. I spent the rest of the day in the emergency room and a very sleepless night for several to come. The next day as fate would have it I was standing in the hospital with a full arm cast in a sling watching my newborn son as he came to this earth. Smiling through the pain and tears, it was all about the birth, and nothing could dampen my joy, not even the big dun waiting back at the barn for more. There would be another time I vowed, and he would get his.
The days turned into months and before I knew it the winter snows had come and my date with the big horse had been prolonged. It took nearly six months for the cast and wrist to heal and I still have a protruding bone to remind me of that eventful day. While I suffered through the onslaught, the dun horse greedily ate his ration of hay and pasture grass and seemed to relish in his prime. As I would feed him he would kick up his hind feet and prance around like a wild mustang. He knew I had a wounded wing and there was nothing I could do about it. So, for the time being he got his way around the barn. I have to say that it was one of the most frustrating times of my young life. To sit and watch that jughead show off the way he would every time I went to feed him was pure hell. If I didn't know better I would think he had a brain that could reason but time would prove that notion wrong in a big way.
Finally, the big day came for a showdown. This cowboy had waited for this moment for nearly a year to the day from the fateful rocket launching the big horse had put on me. I was spurred up with rope in hand and waiting at the round pen that I had picked out for just such an occasion. A local rancher that I had worked for in the past had a twelve foot high round pen that had a cinch post cemented in the middle and it looked like the devils cauldron inside it when enclosed. This was just what I needed for a sassy mess like the dun. We went into the abyss and made our war that day. After four hours of wrangling, the dun came out on the short end of the stick or so I thought. I rode him out of the round pen and into the open after what seemed like forever. He was cool, calm and collected. I remember talking to him the whole time. As I had been working him, he always had his eye on me. He knew that day that it was all business. I was prepared for anything he wanted to pull, at least while he was in the round pen. We barely passed the edge of the pen out into the open when he went sideways in one motion and up into the air with the next. Then he went into a quick curl, bucking the whole time and acting like he enjoyed every minute of it. This time I had my stirrups and command of the bucking reins that I put on his head just in case we had to see who was boss. As hard as I tried I could not pull his head around as he was just too strong. I knew that if I couldn't get his nose pulled into my knee then it was just a matter of time before he undone me and I would blast out of the stirrups. Sure to his cause he outlasted me and I didn't get the whistle on this ride. The landing was uneventful and there were only two witnesses to the disgrace of this cowboy but I must say, that dun horse could buck with the best of them.
Now the time had come when I started worrying about a particular cowboy's reputation. You don't want to start getting nicknames like high-dive Southwick, or the judges gave him a 2 for the landing, etc. so I had to swallow some pride and realize that busting this bronco was beyond my meager skills. Looking back on that day he didn't just buck, he put his heart and soul into it like he was made for it. As time would tell that turned out to be his forte in life.
Realizing that I couldn't trust the dun and he was gaining on me with each outing, I had decided to drop him into the horse auction and take my lumps in life. I was discussing this with some coworkers one day around the water cooler, and one of them said he knew a real time Ranch buckaroo that broke horses for a living out near Price, Utah. He stated that this cowboy was always on the lookout for a bronco that was out of hand and ready for the auction. I told him to have him call me, and we could set up something. The day was eventually set up, and when the cowboy arrived at my barn, I could see that his pride outweighed his belt buckle size. This buckaroo was about to taste defeat in the worst way, and I knew it as I shook his hand and heard his stories of 'stickin the worst ones till they folded like flies in the hot sun.' We made it over to the dun as he sat there munching on a piece of hay. Not sure what was about to happen, the cowboy rubbed the horse all over his body and started a ceremony that lasted about ten minutes. He would rub the ears, withers, hind end and all in between. Up and down around and under until the big horse was nearly asleep. I put the halter over his nose, and he didn't even open his eyes he was so relaxed. Saddled up and ready I asked the cowboy if he wanted me to snub the horse to a large pole I had sticking out of the corral. He said no and just requested to have the horse to himself. I started to lead the horse out into the corral when the cowboy told me to let go of the lead rope and let him have the head. I suggested that he mount him first before I gave him his head and with a disgusted look he said alright. He mounted the horse and told me to let him go; when I did this, the dun just stood there like he was still being massaged. Then all of the sudden the cowboy nudged him forward a step or two, and the dun went to work doing his high Sundance.
The corral gate was opened, and he bucked right through it and out into the open pasture. The cowboy was riding high, and I thought for a moment that he might outlast the dun when he went straight for a pig pen on the far side of the pasture. With one swift tail fish move, he unloaded the bronco buster right into the side of the pig pen. I ran across the pasture and helped him to his feet. After he had got his breath back, a friend of mine walked the dun back over to us and handed me the lead rope. I gave it to the buckaroo and said he's all yours amigo.
Well, the rest of the story ended right there that day, and the famous cowboy's pride landed in the pig crap. He never rode the dun and left with his hat in his hand shaking his head. It was then that I finally had a brainstorm of an idea since seeing that dun standing in the field for the first time. I called a friend of mine that operated a local rodeo stock contracting business and asked if he was interested in the dun. Not wanting to pass up on a good deal the rodeo contractor arrived and looked the dun over. He couldn't believe how solid and good looking the horse was. An offer was made that the horse would be tried in the bucking pens at some local rodeos. If he were still bucking after the eighth rodeo, then I would be paid the price I had purchased him for. If not then I would only get meat price which was about 8 cents a pound back in those days and a humbling lesson to go along with it.
The first big rodeo night was scheduled for the dun at the Pleasant Grove rodeo arena. It was a high school affair, and the bucking chutes were full of young cowboys all looking to best the other. As I entered with the horse in halter one of the young boys started to laugh and said: "My hell, I hope I didn't draw that tame nag tonight." I just looked up at him sitting on the chute gate with all his buddies sneering at the dun and said, "I hope for your sake you didn't either." As luck would have it, the young buckaroo drew the dun out of chute 5, and the game was on. I took the halter off the big horse and with a smack of my hand on his rump he led his way down to the chute gate and was locked into the bucking chute. I could hear the comments as the big horse made his way through the endless line of young cowboys all sitting and standing behind the chutes eyeballing the horses as they were loaded. For the first time since I had decided on this plan, I started to worry that maybe he might not buck and then I'd have the disgrace of leading him out of there with the laughter and jeering. But my fears turned to amazement as the chute gate opened and the big horse blew out of there like he was on fire. Three big enormous jumps and the young rider was loosened from his bucking rein and stirrups. He went off the right side, and the dun horse went right over him and never stopped to look back. I was all grins as the young buck limped back to the chutes with a defeated look on his face. Dirt lined the sweat around his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. I remember him bent over with one of the clowns holding onto him to keep him from falling to the ground while he grasped for that first breath of air. The big dun horse had made an impressive showing.
The rest of the story is not hard to figure out. The dun horse grabbed his share of rodeo fame, and I received my full amount of money for the performances he was yet to attain. I ran into the stock contractor many years later and he said the big horse bucked his way through many rodeos for nearly six years and then completely stopped one day and never bucked again. They threw a saddle on him and rode him as a pickup horse for another two years and then one day they found him lying dead on his winter range. The stock contractor asked me how old I supposed he might have been at the time of his death. I researched his bloodline papers and made his age about 17 when he died.
As memories flow into an old cowboys mind the ups and downs come crashing in like waves in the ocean. Things I should have done different and if I only had it to do again are the thoughts most prevalent on my mind. Looking at this story, I made one real good mistake that led to many other disastrous events. When the seller brought out the big dun horse that day of the sale those many years ago, and I lost all sanity, was the first. I could have saved myself all the grief from the dun horse with one simple question to the owner. One of the first things every simple minded human being wants to know when buying any adult animal is the name of the pet to be purchased. We all need that information before moving into the negotiation mode or, at least, people with common sense would. I neglected that fact until I got home that day and the first thing out of my wives mouth was, "What's his name?" I stood there with a dumb look on my face and realized that I had forgotten to ask the seller that simple but pertinent request. I quickly fumbled through the truck seat paperwork. Upon displaying some proud bloodline papers, the look on my face changed from a proud one of a new horse owner to a puzzled and embarrassed frown. As I repeated his registered name my wife broke out into a laugh and said, "You've got to be kidding me!" That's what it said right there on the paperwork from the Registered Quarter Horse Association. I repeated the name once again, Hollywood's Big Boomer.
With lessons learned the hard way never look a horse over with half your brain somewhere else and always read the fine print because you never know what might lie behind a name. If I had only seen the name Boomer, it might have made sense to me later while flying through the air and scouting the ground for a safe place to land after being shot out of the big dun horses cannon. May God bless all my horses past and present both the good ones and the bad ones.
