Mother's Boy Saves My Father

Okay, promised you the story. But first, a digression to explain my father's riding experience, as far as I knew it at the time. Fade back in time.....to black and white.....

Ol' Girl was our family's milk cow. Grandpa gave my mother her choice between two Guernsey cows. She chose Ol' Girl, she said, because of her "spirit." Hmmmm.

Now, my mom milked Ol' Girl for at least 15 years. Allowing for a couple months off each year for drying up and calving, that's 9,000 times that my mother milked Ol' Girl. Each and every time that cow was milked, she had to be fastened in the stanchion and a "Stop Kick" horse-shoe shaped gizmo ratcheted over her back to impede her efforts to kick. Got a vision of a milkmaid seated on a 3-legged stool, head nestled in the cow's flank, squirting milk two-handed into the milk pail? Nope, instead, envision a woman crouched by the cow's side, one hand holding the milk bucket, milking with the other, and jumping out of the way whenever the "Stop Kick" didn't live up to its name.

Now, Ol' Girl did tolerate my mother to some extent. But, she absolutely abhorred my father. When it was time to doctor the cow, guess who got the job? Shots, foot rot, any kind of distasteful jobs went to him.

One day his brother and he were hanging out at the place, and someone got the bright idea of riding Ol' Girl. Don't know if they were practicing to become bull riders, and thought they'd begin with a mere cow, or what, frankly. I guess it might be one of those things that, "seemed like a good idea at the time."

I'm afraid I don't have a clear recollection of the event, except for seeing Ol' Girl, her tail wringing, bounding down the pasture fence with my dad on her back. Now, every year my dad took us to The Rodeo, so I had a good idea of what it looked like when a man rode a beast. He didn't look bad, but didn't have the advantage of the thing that the bull riders hang onto and so didn't last too long. I believe he limped for a time afterwards, and I also recall it was one of the few times that he drew no sympathy from my mother. (The other time was when he kicked at the rooster and hit the fencepost instead, breaking his big toe.)

Also don't recall if his brother had a turn at Ol' Girl.

Now, this is the long way around of telling you that my father was not a rider, of horses or of cows. So imagine my sister's (horse co-owner) and my dismay at learning that my father planned to ride Boy on a hunting trip with his compadres? We were sooooo afraid for him. But, what could we say?

"Sorry old man, but you can't take that horse that you helped us buy, that you keep and feed and water and shoe and vaccinate, no, you can't take him because we, your young, immature young daughters believe that we know what is best for you." Right.

We crossed our fingers, and held our breath, as Boy loaded without a problem and they all motored off to parts unknown.

Okay, I'm back. Had to take a break there.

Dad came home way early. My memory is very foggy, and I heard nothing from my father, but the story was that they had been riding on a narrow trail on a steep hillside when my dad lost his seat and fell off Boy. He got his foot hung up in the stirrup, though, and was hanging there from the horse. Both my sister and I were so very proud of our good horse, who just stood stock still on the side of that mountain until someone could disentangle our father.

And so, because he took me to see the good ranch-broke , though green, horse, and sponsored my purchase, that day my father didn't die in a terrible accident on the side of the mountain.

Good Boy!