Every genuine or would be cowboy’s pride and joy is his “good dawg.” One of the highlights at a Stock Show is the stock dog trials.

Old dogs. They write songs about’em and watermelon wine. They have sayings about ‘em learning new tricks. They even name feet after them, i.e., “My ol’ dogs are shore tired!”

This year we recognized the 75th anniversary of D-Day, the beginning of the end of the Second World War. Europe had been completely conquered except for England, an island about the size of Wyoming. President Roosevelt made the decision to go all in.

We try to be faithful recyclers around the house. I make regular runs to town with the pickup full of newspapers, bottles, aluminum cans, cardboard boxes and tin.

Once upon a time at the start of all creation

You gotta hand it to cowboys. They can turn a birthday cake into a four-alarm fire.

In rural America, farmers and “rural lifestylers” are often neighbors. Seeking a place to better raise their children, to retire in peace or to escape the continuing anxiety of the city, they move to the country and build a house on a 2-acre plot.

A medical doctor friend of mine was recounting his experiences in Africa as a volunteer for a church missionary program.

A cowboy is the way he is because he works with stock.

I’ve always sorta figgered the reason there is more cowboy poetry than there is farmer poetry has to do with horses.

The latest statistics show that less then 2% of the population is directly involved in production agriculture.

I was visiting with Lisa after their bull sale this spring.

Age-in’ a cow is ‘bout the thing I hate most. Seems like they can tell the instant you cross the line into the strike zone.”

Two Jumps said he used to ride bulls. In spite of his name, he tried.

There’s nothing like an evening of calving to promote the romantic image of the cowboy. Right, ladies?

This year I’m having a déjà foo.

Seems like I ride a lot of borrowed horses. At folks’ ranches or trail rides, ropings or brandings they mount me ’cause I’m usually a long way from home. I often bring my own saddle. They offer to lend me a saddle as well, but I decline for personal reasons. Sometimes it’s the only way I can…

How many of you have ever had a new veterinarian out to your place? You think you’re scared!

This is the poem of the hunter’s son as he tracks the woods alone,

ATTN: This is addressed to teenagers, tuba players and grown-ups in the news media who have gotten great giggles out of the story that cow flatulence is a danger to mankind.

I was ugly when I was born. How ugly were you? I was so ugly they had to tie my mother’s legs together so I could nurse!

In my life there are people with talents I admire: horse trainers, good ropers, cattle traders, backyard mechanics, welders, guitar players. A.I. technicians, farriers, purebred breeders and rough stock riders, for instance. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that you can’t be good at everythi…

“What happened to your pickup seat? Is that buffalo track?”

It was one of those 2 o’clock mornin’ calls: “Looked like everything was comin’ jes fine, Doc, then he got stuck! Could you come?”

Dear Lord,

“How ya doin’ Skip?” I asked.

Prejudice is a funny thing. When a city slicker or a dude comes meanderin’ into the Montana bar in Glasgow he’s liable to get a lot of hard stares.

The television paralyzed watchers as the horrendous flames burned California to ashes. The governor in command puffed and pounded, claiming that he and his ENVIRO-DENY-ERS took NO BLAME, NO BLAME, NO BLAME!

It’s never easy to:

It doesn’t make much difference how fast a horse can run if the jockey doesn’t cross the finish line with him.

You remember that Christmas a few years ago,when you waited all night for ol’ Santy to show

A Christmas tree is one of those things Like popcorn balls or angel wings That children make in the snow. Things with beauty unsurpassed That touch our lives but never last More than a week or so. It shines from every living room Like someone in a bright costume That’s happy to see you drop …

Twenty years ago when we still lived in Brighton, Colo., I had invited several friends to have Thanksgiving at my house. (A tradition my insurance agent later said I could no longer afford).

I ran into Randy in the airport. He was draggin’ his right hind leg like an escaped convict tryin’ to cover his tracks.

We were watching The History Channel at Grandma’s casita. It was a story about the USS Enterprise being attacked. It was 1945.

In November 1621, a Thursday, I believe, the Pilgrims were fixin’ to set down to a meager meal of fish sticks and boiled beets. When out of the woods marched a jovial band of Indians packin’ a bushel of roastin’ ears and two wild turkeys.

Each fall, the governor of the great state of South Dakota hosts his Invitational Pheasant Hunt. This is meant to be a way to show off South Dakota’s state bird, their pride and joy, the wily pheasant.

Good ranch managers often use numbered ear tags to monitor their herd more closely.

Yer not gonna keep’er, still, are ya Dad?

She was a pretty cow. A big polled Hereford but she was only half bagged up. So they sorted her off.

Come to Alternative Dining and New Age Spa

What do cable TV and “Where your food comes from” have in common?

As Noah said when he went out on the deck to check the windshield wipers, “I should’a brought a raincoat.”

It’s fall on the cow outfit.

The first week of August I was haulin’ a load of cows to the sale.

Labor Day was created by unions to recognize the American Worker.

A concept in protecting coyotes has been introduced by a group of Montana animal rights disciples: Predator Friendly Wool.

This is my wife. She does the books. I do the important stuff

Lately there has been dissension at the rancho. I have overheard murmurings in the barnyard, in particular regarding my stock trailer. The grumbling animals enlisted my teenage daughter to present their complaints.

How would you like to live across the street from an open Mexican border? Would you be afraid?

Parts of Montana are as close to the Outback as we “Yanks” will ever get.