cowgirlpoet's Blog

Cowboy Poetry is the easiest of all to write -- it rhymes, usually.  If you know the vernacular, you can sell it, although most of it is not very good.  There are exceptions.  "Tying A Knot In The Devil's Tail" is a classic, and usually recited at every social event from banquets to weddings to baby christenings by one cowboy or another who is three sheets to the wind and wanting to show off.

I write  cowboy poetry, too.  Mine is based on the events or objects that I'm around every day.  This one is about my dog, Daisy, bossy little bitch that she is.

 

Blue Eyed Dog

Now every good trainer will tell you

Don't  be over harsh with your pup

Just raise it with  love and affection

If it makes a mistake, don't give up.

 

So my little pup was a doozy

A blue Aussie Shepherd, you bet!

She'd make me the perfect companion 

Those Aussie's are smart as they get.

 

She learned right away how to read me

And took to the cows like a pro

But she had her own mind how to do things

And wouldn't back up to a "No!".

 

I slowly began to take notice

that my cow-dog thought she was the boss,

But she worked cows alright, and kept the bunch tight,

Didn't chouse 'em or run the calves off.

 

She let me know when she was hungry

Or when someone came through the gate

Made sure I got up in the morning

And whined if I stayed up too late.

 

Now, the cowgirl's obeying the cow-dog

Let me tell you, "Whatever you do

Raise your pup with love and affection

Just don't get one that's smarter than you"!

 

Cowgirl poet 

 

 

   

 

 

Several years ago, I married this guy.  Little did I know at the time, but he was a member of a fundamentalist Christian religion.  He was "lapsed" when I married him .... needless to say.  Otherwise, I would have played a different hand.

Shortly after the marriage, he informed me that, according to his religion,  a divorced person who remarries is "committing adultery".  That made me feel real good, I can tell you, but it was just the tiniest of what was to come.

I suggested we begin going to his Church.  Slap me upside the head, but I did. 

OOooooh, scary, scary.   

 Next, I hear the the Ten Commandments have been done away with because there is a "New Law".    Only they couldn't tell me what the new law was. 

Then, I'm told women aren't allowed to speak up in Bible Study. 

 Okay, so I couldn't present my position that all modern day law that I'm familiar with was origianally based on the Ten Commandments.

So then, If I didn't help him with his Bible Study lessons he couldn't figure them out,  but if I have a question about the Bible I'm supposed to ask him, not the congregation.  What's wrong with this picture.

Next, he tells me I can't wear make-up or perfume to Church.

Hey, I'm a duck out of water here.  Make-up is my middle name.  Perfume is a spice of my life.

We can't associate with anybody socially outside the Church.

The hairs on the back of my neck are tingling.

Dancing isn't allowed.

Hey., these people are sure a lot of fun to be around.

The only Christians are those that are baptised into this particular church.

If I don't get dunked, I'm going to Hell.

At so called "parties", it's men on one side of the room, women on another.

Well, needless to say, I kicked over the traces.  It took me 2 months. 

Now, I'm wallowing in  "sinfulness" by enjoying my Catholic friends, my Mormon buddies, dancing 'til the sun comes up, eating lunch with Methodists, going to the movies with Episcoplaians, and this weekend, I'm going to the Rez with my friends who all belong to the Native American church.    I don't even care if a person goes to church at all, to tell you the truth, if we're simpatico, we're simpatico.

And if I've stepped on any toes, I apologize sincerely.

 

 

 

Attention, Cowgirls

FINALLY, THERE IS A DAY FOR US

OUR  DAY

Today is

International very good looking damn smart Cowgirl's day!!

**********

And here's a good motto for us to live by

"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body.  Rather, skid in sideways, champagne in one hand, strawberries in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "Wahoo, what a ride!"

We have an influx from southern California.  They've discovered that our real estate prices are cheaper than Phoenix, Flagstaff and Prescott, so they're coming to "Invest".

Some even plan to live here.

Now, I was raised with the fiery latinos, the humerous Navajo, accomodating Hopi and half- ed anglos.  In comparison, these people from California seem "bland".  They're nice enough, just no spice.

Once they relocate here, they're lost.  Their kids have been raised on concrete, and  say there's "nothing to do" here.  They've never learned how to play, other than organized soccer, t-ball, etc.  They can't see the possibilities of building forts in the rock bluffs, playing cowboy along the river or in the flats, flying kites from the top of a hill. 

Even the adults seem to have no inner resources, and need something to entertain them.  They soon find that their lives here are sorely lacking in that regard.

Although most come to the area with Four or Five Hundred Thousand from the sale of their California home, the haven't scouted out the job market.  Most end up working at minimum wage in the tourism industry and supplementing that income with their savings.  Within a decade, the savings will  be gone.

Some have tried  to get elected to city government on the platform that "In California, we -------------------"  (fill in the blanks), as if we're so ignorant that we need to adopt California ways.

Of course they never ask me about the availability of the things that are so important to them. I believe it never entered their minds that there is a town without such things as a sushi bar.   They merely come in, flashing that cash, and want to buy, buy, buy.  So I sell, sell, sell. 

And sometimes I ask myself "What the Hell are you doing selling out to these strangers?"  But that's the career I've chosen, and sometimes there's a real conflict between keeping quality of life and making the almighty dollar.

My little corner of the world, the ranch.  It's not for sale.

I've hired a house painter to give my office a new lease on life.  It's a historic building, needs special care, and he's got it looking better with each stroke of the paint brush.

Yesterday, he came across a window that needed to be re-puttied.  The only way he knew how to do it was with a caulking gun.  I had putty on hand, but no caulking gun. 

I was dressed in my usual office finery, and I should tell you that heels and a black dress are not condusive to property fix-up.  Nevertheless, I took it upon myself to show the house painter how to apply putty to the window.

I dug the putty out of the can, and began to roll it into a snake for application to the window frame, when the phone rang!  Hey, I can't miss the chance to sell property, so I answered the phone with putty residue clinging to the palms of my hands, because I couldn't wipe my hands on my black dress.

Okay.  That out of the way, I began to apply the snake of putty to the window frame, gently pushing it into the "L", and getting the putty underneath my manucured nails.  Then I licked my finger and applied moisture to the putty, before beginning to smooth it out with the putty knife.  As I was smoothing out the putty with the putty knife, a customer came to the door, and I ran through back door of the office to meet the customer, who wanted to write a contract to buy a piece of land.

This is where I got putty all over my favorite "Lucky" ball-point pen and realized too late that I needed to wash my hands if I was going to switch from window-puttier to real estate broker.  AS I was washing the putty off my hands, the customer decided he needed to go home and get his check-book so he could write an earmest money check.  That's when I noticed that I had gotten putty scrapings on my high-heeled shoes and had tracked it through the entire office.

Back outside again, I asked the house painter if he thought he could finish the putty job, and he assured me that  he could pick it up from there.

After cleaning up the putty residue that was all over the floor, the telephone the pen, and my fancy dress, I looked out the window that the painter was puttying, and saw that the putty was 3 inches thick and had finger dabs in it.  The painter, satisfied with his work,  had moved on to other things.

"Oh, to heck with it", I said, and went down to the hardware store to buy him some caulking, which I should have done in the first place.  He removed all of the  messy putty and did it his way, with the caulking gun.

Sometimes, I get the better of myself. 

There was a wedding this afternoon.  I know, a strange day for it, but he's shipping out.

Here's my take on the whole affair.

 

Hottentot Geneology

Dottie Haught and

Bob Tott

Tied the knot

And they begot

Haught 'n Totts.

 

Cowgirl Poet

 

 

 

A friend told me this morning that I have a "split personality".   

It mostly has to do with "dressing for the occasion".

At home or at the sale barn, it's Wranglers and boots, Double D Ranchwear for "special".  For the office, it's 3 inch heels and flirty dresses, and for property rehab it's coveralls and a tool belt.  All my friends seem to recognize me, though, so I tell myself I'm grounded.

My Daddy was a cowman, I was raised around that type, and thought I'd like a cowboy of my own.  Come to find out, cowboys don't marry cowgirls -- most of them are looking for "girly, girly".  Once I had gotten that through my head, I decided to meet the competition head-on. 

At the next oppportunity, I dressed up in a slinky dress, nail polish, the whole nine yards. I looked "city girl", through and through.   Sure enough, I was asked for a date to the dance that night, by a good lookin' cowboy.  Conversation got off to a rough start, he didn't have any idea  I could "talk cow", and I was careful not to tip my hand.  After a few spins around the dance floor, we were joined by a buddy of his, and they began to talk about the branding coming up  next day.  They went on about the "Mountain Oysters", in a teasing manner, naturally thinking I would be horrified at the prospect.  Finally, it all got the best of me.  "Hey, boys", I said, "bring those mountain oysters over to my place, I'll fillet and bread them.  We can have some brains and eggs on the side.  Come to think of it, I'll keep your irons hot tomorrow, help you run the calves through the chute and vaccinate as we go."  Well,  my date thought he'd died and gone to heaven, a "city" lookin' girl, who could be a hand at the branding, too.  We had a great time!  For a long time!

I never would marry a man who couldn't handle himself horseback.  It's a "cowgirl" thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morning chores called for me to feed a heifer calf I'd brought into headquarters yesterday.  As I stood at the feed barn door, fidding with the latch, she kept a wary eye on me with an unhappy attitude.  As I came out of the barn with arms full of hay, she charged and knocked me right into the dirt.  I sat there laughing at myself for being so careless, got up and dusted myself off and left her breakfast  hay on the ground.  Maybe this afternoon she will have decided I'm not so bad, after all.

The weekend days were spent in town, working on an old retail store building that I'm planning to sell.  This building was built around the turn of the century, and has a gorgeous tin ceiling that my son has painted  with copper-color auto paint.  Pretty!  Pigeons had found a way in, and the stair banisters needed lots of clean-up...dead pigeons littered the floor.  A broken second story window seemed to be their entrance, so that was taken care of.  Slowly, I'm returning this great old building to it's former granduer.  It's hard to turn loose of these old treasures once they are fixed up, but they make fantastic "hooks", and bring in the business for whoever buys them. 

20 years ago, I brought home a Manx tomcat and he  distributed his dominant gene pool to all the neighboring ranches.  If he didn't "travel" to cover the territory, I always had a surplus of tailless  barn cats which were in high demand for their hunting abilities.

Last week, my daughter-in law came home with a bob tailed kitten she'd been given by the neighbors, and the circle continues. 

 

If only I could use the "Insert/edit Image" button, to insert the scan of my photo, we'd be on a roll right now.  Ah, well.  I'm short on patience, to say nothing of computer skills ..

I happened upon this site while doing a search for a western icon ...  it was an accident, actually.  Once here, I find that there are interesting participants.  People I would call individualistic.  Not the usual generic herd.

I once won a bundle on a lottery, it was a fluke, winnings on a ticket received as a gift. The "luck of the draw", which I split with the  gift-giver in an effort to preserve good karma.  He persists, but luck hasn't smiled again. 

I'm making a killing in real estate, while my friend continues his pursuit of lady luck.  I must introduce him to this site, where he'll find more kindred spirits than I.