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Sitting in a middle pew, safely
flanked by Aunt Pinky on one side and cousin Charlie on the
other, Hooter was thinking he was going to like the new preacher
just fine. “At my last
church,” boomed the affable pastor, Bernard Willmore, “On the
very last Sunday I was there, Satan showed up. I’m not talking
about the way we always see him lurking in the shadows with
unkind words and impure, thoughts. I’m talking that he showed up
in all of his pointy horned, sulfurous smelling glory.” No one
was sure where he was heading, but everyone was paying
attention.
“We all fled, just fell over each
other getting away from him,” said the Pastor. “No, we were not
faithful. Yes, we completely forgot those words from 1st Joshua,
‘I hereby command you: Be strong and courageous; do not be
frightened or dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you
wherever you go.’
“Don’t judge us, though, brothers
and sisters. Here was Satan. We all ran, everyone of us, except
for an older gentleman in the congregation by the name of
Willard Smithwick.”
Willmore’s new congregation was
beginning to lean forward, starting to hang on every word.
“Satan looked at Mr. Smithwick and yelled, ‘Don’t you know who I
am?’”
“Yep.”
“Satan leaned down to look Mr.
Smithwick in the eye. ‘Don’t you realize that I could inflict
more pain upon you than your mortal body could stand?’”
“Yep.”
“Satan squinted at him. He’d
never run into this before. ‘Don’t you understand that I can
send your soul to the fires of Hell for all of eternity?’”
“Yep.”
“Satan put his hands upon his
scaly hips and glared at our brother. ‘You know who I am, what I
can do to you, and you’re still unafraid?’”
“Yep.”
“Satan was getting good and mad
now, stomping around and shouting. ‘You know who I am, what I
can do to you, and there you sit. How is such a thing
possible?’”
“Well, junior, what you’ve got to
understand is that I’ve been married to your sister for the past
48 years.”
By the time Hooter and the rest
of the Congregation stopped laughing, their ribs hurt and there
was an eruption of coughing fits. Hooter was especially sore,
since Aunt Pinky was less amused and had placed a hard left
elbow into his mid-section.
The ensuing sermon revolved
around how it is that things aren’t always as they seem.
Sorting Suppliers rather than Supply
At coffee afterwards, Hooter chided Lonnie, “You might keep
that in mind the next time you go to buying bulls.” He’d wound
up with a couple of certified duds the year before.
Lonnie clenched his jaw. “Don’t you think I know that. They’ve
got so many numbers for so many different things, I don’t know
how you’re supposed to sort anything out anymore. I tried.”
He had, too. In fact, Lonnie had
developed an elaborate spreadsheet that was supposed to account
for all of the data, and index all of the bulls he was
considering. He included actual performance data, Expected
Progeny Differences, actual disposition scores, genomic data and
even the inbreeding coefficient.
“That’s why I just look at them,”
said Izzie Franklin, with a wise and knowing nod.
“So that’s the reason behind the
rainbow of color and quality,” chuckled Hooter.
“I don’t know boys, seems like
that’s one of the reasons to buy half-brothers. You don’t buy
the individual bulls so much as the average of the group you
buy,” offered Charlie. “All I know is that it has worked out
pretty well for me.”
Peetie, the elder statesman of
the group with more miles and cattle over the years than anyone
else said, “I’ve tried all of that and more, boys. You know when
I finally started getting the best bulls for what I needed and
at the best prices; when I started getting the most value?”
Anyone within earshot quit
chomping brownies and listened.
“I started concentrating more on the program and the people
behind it than the bulls. I did my homework, found some outfits
that had the kind of cattle with the kind of performance I knew
I could use. I told them all about my program, where I wanted to
take it. I asked them for their suggestions. You can sort a lot
of chaff that way. The guys who told me they thought they had
some genetics that would work for me, but if they didn’t, they
knew of some other places I might try, those guys made the first
sort. Then I checked around, visited with some of their
customers, got a feel for the cattle, but mostly for how they
were treated by the seller. Those guys made the second sort.
Then I asked my top two on the list to send me four bulls. I
told them what I’d spend and to just send me the best they could
for the money.”
Peetie took a sip of his coffee, too slowly for Izzie. “And?”
“And, I’ve been doing business
with both those outfits for about 15 years now. If it’s somebody
who understands your program, somebody you can trust, they’ll
send you better bulls for the money than you can find yourself.
That’s what I think anyway.”
Lessons Re-learned
Hooter was smiling and remembering the preacher’s story and
Peetie’s advice as he rode along for the early morning gather.
All he could do was remember, because he and the other day help
had been forbidden to utter a word. Hooter had been visiting an
old pal in the Dakotas, who invited him to come along.
“These cows are the gentlest
you’ll find anywhere,” the owner had informed them at a pre-dawn
breakfast. “We select and cull hard for disposition. And, we do
everything quiet around here, no whip, run and holler. Slow and
easy, understand? So, when I give you the high sign, no more
talking. Got it?”
Best as Hooter could tell, that
high sign had come a couple miles back, and the sun was just now
lifting above the horizon enough to silhouette the rocks and
brush edging the river banks high above. The crew was riding
along a dry riverbed. The only sound was the gentle thump of
hooves and the occasional rattle of a bit or spur.
Hooter was watching the owner,
who was fairly well standing in his stirrups, scouting the
horizon. Every time a horse would snort or someone would unzip a
jacket, the owner would turn and glare accusingly, holding a
finger up to his lips.
Given the supposed gentle nature
of the cows, Hooter was wondering what all the stealth was
about. You’d have though they were going to catch ghosts in the
act rather than scrub brush for mama cows.
Then it happened. The owner
raised his hand suddenly and pulled his rein. Everyone stopped.
Way up ahead, peering over the edge of the bank, you could just
barely make out the ears and front legs of several cows. Just
like, after one of those eternal seconds, the heads turned into
tails.
“Oh no!” shouted the owner. “They
seen us. Come on!” And he was off like a shot.
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