Let's put in a good word for the feedlot
cowboy. That group of fellers that meet every mornin' early at the horse
barn, saddle up, get their instructions and ride off down the alley.
These boys and ladies come from everywhere. Most are fair to middlin'
horsemen with some sort of rural background. A few have come in from the
outside, doin' ranch work. These particular buckaroos and brush poppers
often have trouble adapting to a world of crowded pens, clangin' gates
and speedin' feed trucks. They're used to a little slower pace and the
madhouse routine of pen checkin', processin', doctorin', sortin' and
shippin' leaves 'em a little bamfoozled. Some of 'em catch on and
other's just float around the yard hopin'a heifer will calve or a steer
will get out on the road.
A big bunch
are young people who grew up around feedlots or horseshoers, rodeos,
small farms or sale barns. They gravitate to bein' a feedlot cowboy.
Some are naturals. They have cow savvy and a good eye. They put in their
apprenticeship and work their way up to be the cattle foreman or
manager someday.
There's another group
who have a little college, maybe a degree, who are willin' to work and
learn from the more experienced cowboys. If they don't get shot or run
off by the crew they eventually gain a position of responsibility.
Lots
of feedlot cowboys are married. It's a steady job, often with housing
furnished, a place to keep a horse or two and they're home every night.
'Course there's always a few young single bucks who sleep in the
bunkhouse, stay up late and stay broke.
All
of 'em complain about the mud, heat, cold, wind, sorry company horses,
Holsteins, the cattle Foreman, the pay, the doctorin' the cattle buyer,
the no rope no dog rules and countin' with bankers.
They
love harrassin' the new man, coffee in the shack, Sunday afternoons,
tellin' jokes, seein' someone else get bucked off and Copenhagen.
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