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Friday, February 16, 2018

My Buddy Beau


Beau on my lap several years ago.

We've all ben through it, for anybody who takes a pet into their family must face the end of their life. We love our four-footed friends, and they give us so much pleasure and comfort, so losing them is always difficult.

As a young child, probably in the eight or nine-year-old range, I got acquainted with my first boxer.  We were in Cayucos vacationing, and I fell in love with the personality and looks of the breed.

Life happened, so girlfriend, military, marriage, children, and career all came before getting a boxer.  Then one fine day our middle son came to the house to show off his new dog, Mugs, a six-month-old male boxer.  He was spindly, a tan and white dog, and not particularly good looking.  In fact, he was just this side of ugly.

As is so often the case with our offspring, their plans change. He found he couldn't keep his dog and move to the city.  He left Mugs with some friends, and moved on with his life.

Within a couple of weeks, the family taking care of Mugs called me. "We have your son's dog, but we really aren't set up for such a big one. Would you like to take him to your ranch?"

When they brought Mugs out of their back yard, I nearly fell out of the pickup.  He'd grown up.  And had he ever grown up.  He was massive in the chest, with a huge head. He was absolutely beautiful. He climbed onto the passenger seat with no hesitation and seemed content to go with me.

The years sped by, and one afternoon when Mugs was about ten years old, I came home to find he had evidently had a heart attack.  After my tears, I buried him here on the ranch, where we'd enjoyed several good years together.

A few months later, we heard about Boxer Rescue in the Sunland area and Max came to live on our hilltop.  Again, several years passed as he approached the ten-year age,  This time, it was much sadder and more difficult, for we had to take Max to our vet to help us let go of him with love and kindness.

A few months after Max joined Mugs in the pasture, Sharon heard of registered boxers in Porterville, and we went to see them. A beautiful male came home with us, soon to become known as Beau.

Beau turned ten in September last year, so we recognized the inevitability.  During recent weeks his coat lost much of its luster, and his tired body lost a little of the condition that made him so handsome.

Thursday morning, I had been up since 4:00 AM, after having been to my Writers Group the night before. I was sitting in my big chair with my computer on my lap, editing my book.  Sharon came out from the bedroom, "Beau had a major seizure."

With heavy heart we watched him during the morning and when he had a second seizure in less than three hours, we knew it was time to let him go.  The final decision was not made without careful consideration, but we both agreed it was unfair to make him suffer like that.  Simply put, it was time.

Our vet, who grew up with our boys, has a practice in Porterville.  He came out to the pickup to kindly and gently attend to our pet.  We took Beau home and lovingly put him out in the meadow with Mugs, and Max.

Beau added a great deal of pleasure to our hilltop. He was my buddy, and he loved Sharon. She usually fed our dogs, and when it got near feeding time, he would come stand in front of her, roll his head side to side, and seemingly "talk" to her.  It was a funny sound, definitely not a bark, but a kind of yowl.  If she didn't move right away to start the feeding process, he'd reach out with his foot and paw her leg, talking all the time.

He enjoyed running behind me when I was out and about on the quad, or walking with me when I went to the barn to feed or down in the pasture to irrigate. He loved chasing the squirrels living on our hilltop, and once in a while even caught one.

This post is not meant to bum you out, or make you sad.  This is something we know, and must accept, when we bring pets into our lives.  There must be a finite end to the period of having them enrich our lives and we are obliged to be ready and willing to let them go with love and caring. As the stewards of our pets lives, we owe it to them to be there, tearful if necessary, letting them know we love them when the end must come.

Beau was a stubborn, Type A, male creature.  But then, so am I.  Maybe that's why we got along so well.

Beau - 2007-2018
This picture was taken on a beautiful spring morning when Beau was no more then two or three.  This is the way I want to remember him - running free, feeling  no pain, and standing among the flowers.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Learning to Drive

In my youth, one of the biggest milestones a boy had, was to get a driver's license.  But before one could get a license, you had to learn to drive.  Fortunately for most kids raised on a farm or ranch, this was not only an opportunity, but an obligation.

In the fall of the year, before the green grass grew enough to provide adequate nourishment for the cows, the cattle all over the ranch had to be fed hay.  The first job every morning was to feed hay, whether cattle needed to be gathered or moved, or there was fence to build.

We owned flatbed pickups which were backed up to the hay stack, and carefully stacked with bales of hay, often three or four bales high. The hay was tied down with rope because the roads through the hills were definitely not freeways. The driver, and hopefully a helper, then headed into the hills to disperse the hay in various fields.  Some days, wives were enlisted to help, but it was the youngsters that had an obligation to help out.

When I was no more than five, my father enlisted me to be his "driver." He did all the loading and tied down the hay, then we hurried to an open area in the hills where he planned to feed some cows.  Dad untied the first section, and got ready to feed.

The older trucks had a pull-throttle which would the set the engine speed appropriately.  He'd tell me to get ready, shift the transmission into Compound Low, called Granny Gear by many, and let out the clutch.  As soon as the truck started rolling, he jumped out and told me get behind the wheel.  I was so small, I had to kneel on the seat so I could see over the wheel.

I was told to drive the truck around the flat, keep it out of the rocks, and don't let it go into a ditch.  If I got scared, or was getting too close to some obstacle, all I had to do was shut it off.

As soon as I was behind the wheel, Dad jumped on the back, fed hay and looked over his cows until he had sufficient hay on the ground to feed the cows in that field.  Then he'd yell, "Okay, shut it off."  He then retied the hay, jumped in and drove us to another flat, where we fed more hay to another field of cows with me driving the truck.

I learned very quickly to steer around the rocks, stay away from gullies and draws, and make a big circle in the flat.  By the time I could reach the pedals, around the age of 8 or 10 as I recall, I had several years of steering experience.  By the time I was 12, I was driving a pickup all over the hills.

When it came time to go to the DMV to get a license, driving, shifting a manual shift, and turning and backing was old hat.  Though rocks and trees won't drive in front of you as other drivers will, I'd learned to avoid problems.

After a Driver's Education class covering the rules of the road and the law, and I was ready to get my license.  On my 16th birthday, I went to the DMV, took the written test, and drove for the examiner.  That evening, when I blew out the candles on my cake, I had a brand new drivers license in my pocket.

Monday, February 12, 2018

Home in the Foothills


My home is in the middle, a guest house to the left, and the barn to the right.
The top of Black Mountain, shrouded in clouds, is approximately 5,000 ft
I live on a point of a ridge at 1,000 foot altitude in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. My front door faces east, and is less than 100 yards from a steep hillside.  From there to the eastern slope in Nevada, stand the rugged mountains serving as my back yard.

My parents bought this property in 1929, and still lived on this hilltop when I was born in 1944.  I was raised on a working cow/calf cattle ranch, riding horses, working cattle, feeding hay, and building and preparing fences.  When my parents finally built a new home off the ranch, I moved my wife and three sons to the home place.

My children attended the same elementary school I attended, and graduated from the same high school where I met and courted their mother.  Today, when the grandkids come to visit at Grampy and Grammy's, they run and climb on the same rocks my father bought almost 90 years ago.

I continue to raise a few cows, including the bull Mr Boo, my hereford/angus herd sire.  Keep reading my blog, and you will learn about some of them.