Howdy friends and neighbors. Have you ever been to an airport? I have noticed that a common thread among all who travel like a bird is that they must inquire as soon as possible what kind of plane they are getting on. You know, is it a Boeing 777 or a crop duster? Like the size of the plane is going to make the whole travel experience any better. I have no clue where this thought came from because I haven’t been to an airport lately nor am I planning on going anywhere. It just popped into my head the other day as I was loading out a set of heifers.
I wonder, (forgive me for wasting a few minutes of your time by going here…) if cattle do the same thing when they go to or from a sale barn, pasture, feedlot, or beyond. I can just hear them saying as they follow the rancher’s feed bucket into the corral:
“Gee Marge, I wonder if we are getting a 52 foot, punch side Barrett Gold Series aluminum pot?”
“No, Tess. Tight-wad farmer Brown is over there hooking up that ‘68 year model open-top, 16 foot, FFA shop-built sardine can puddle-jumper.”
“Well, doesn’t that just put knots in your tail?”
“Oh, but look at these tickets, we have a connection at Elk Livestock. There is a good chance we will get a double-decker out of there.”
“Oh, goody Tess!”
“Or, there is good chance we could get one of those super-fast 24 by 8’s with full top and running lights.”
“You’re right! Oh, I hope it’s a quick-connecting ride!”
“Yeah, I hope we don’t get dusted in and have to spend the night in the cross alley.”
Of course, the big time, big shots get the private trailers. The pure-bred elite get the Gulf Stream equivalent as they travel in enclosed, air-ride private trailers with plush wood shavings and a place to lie down. They travel complete with three-coarse meals and the finest of waters.
The pee-ons are literally pee-ons as they travel coach where it is crowded, noisy and there’s only one big open bathroom. There are the three bawler calves across the divider gate that just keep bawling and carrying on. There is a fat bull with his tail on your rail and 6-year old silage on his breath. Then there are two old cows that should really keep their stories about roaming the bucking bull pastures to themselves. “What goes on in Las Cowages, stays in Las Cowages!” They’ve even got tattoos! A big 1+ on their hip.
I’m Monte Tucker, wondering how all that got under my hat??? You just never know!
Another random thought, if I ever buy a sale barn, I’m going to name it “Cowport.”
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What's Under My Hat 