"Folk Wisdom and the Old Dog"

I have never been enamored of the Clintons since they appeared on the national political scene. They are, without doubt, one of the most notoriously ambitious and ruthless politicians in the business. Their checkered past and the company they keep reveal a remarkable ability to elevate sleaze to a new low. They have the most fluid principles and standards imaginable, and with them, lying is not wrong, it is an art form. The disgrace they brought to the presidency and the Oval Office are etched for all time in our national memory.

Watching the current spate of primaries and caucuses reminded me of a time when I was a 9-year old boy on a cattle ranch in Wyoming. The ranch hands had gathered on the steps of the bunk house, having just finished “supper.” The western sky was beginning to take on the orange glow of a summer sunset. I was but a mere midget in the company of these giants among men. They were my heroes. The conversation turned to the foreman’s wife, who was unusually well endowed with a mouth so caustic she could burn the flesh off the back of any adversary. That particular evening she had engaged in a vicious assault on the character of one of the other women on the ranch. The “boys” took offense at her behavior and the incident was the topic of their conversation.

The senior ranch hand was a quiet man of few words. His face was wrinkled and weathered. His hands were calloused from years of fixing fence, branding calves, breaking horses and all of the other remarkable talents so peculiar to their ilk. His hat was stained by a band of sweat where the crown met the brim. His Levis were tattered, and his boots were rough and well worn. From the pocket of his shirt dangled the string and paper emblem attached to a bag of Bull Durham. This man was my mentor who taught me all of the skills required of a real ranch hand. I knew he must, in some rugged way, resemble God Himself. He was my Dad. As he listened to the conversation, he stared silently at the crude patterns he was drawing in the dirt with a stick. As silence began to descend on their words, he raised his head, looked into the eyes of his fellow cowboys and said, “Well guys, there‘s one thing for sure; “a dog always smells his own hole first.”

You don’t suppose that dog’s name was Hillary do you?


Cowboy Bob
March 7, 2008