Baxter Black: Your own worst enemy
February 18, 2013
It usually happens when you're by yourself. You're trying to load a bunch of cows in the one-ton. It should hold twelve head but with four to go, they plug up! You're slappin' them with the BQA approved paddle, you chunk a piece of wood at the one in the gate. You've actually turned around and leaned up against the last cow in the loading chute and pushing like you were trying to jump start your car!
You slide into that stage where cussing is mandatory, "Git yer sorry @#%*! no good bag of rumen contents, in there! You think this is a home for pampered poop processors! I'm gonna cull every @#%!* one of you if you don't … Where's that dog when I need him!"
Then the light dawns … yer good dog is already in the bed of the truck, guarding his territory!
Another time I was trying to get one of my old farm trucks to start. It was a '69 Chevy I had bought used. I remember it had a funny smell in the cab? It took me weeks to identify it. It was only when I ran in to Oscar Van Oosten's daughter and recognized the scent of a milking barn, that I placed it!
Anyway, I called my daughter out to help me start the truck. I took off the air filter and had her lean under the hood and spray starter fluid (ether) into the top of the carburetor, as I sat behind the steering wheel cranking the engine and pumping the gas pedal. It would catch, then peter out. We switched positions, to no avail.
I hooked up the tow chain to the old Ford and had her pull me down the driveway, popping the clutch and banging on the chain. "Dang it!" I said, kicking the tire. I raised the hood again and stared down at the malignant machine holding an empty can of starter fluid. My daughter piped up, "You think it's out of gas, Dad?"
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