I like vegetarians. I like organic farmers, I like mule people, purebred breeders, heelers, bankers, equine practitioners, county agents, BLMers, cat lovers and cowboy poets.

I pick on them all, of course, because they all, at one time or another, hold their hand up in front of their face and dare me, “Bet ya can’t hit my hand before I move it!”

But, some would say the most frequent subject of my poems and stories is cowboys. They’re right. Unfortunately, it’s like shooting myself in the foot. I’ve probably written 100 stories about cowboys getting bucked off, run over, bit, kicked, stomped, throwed, butted, drug and keg hauled, for every one story about some wacko environmentalist or animal rights lunatic.

I get an e-mail attack for carrying my dog in the back of the pick-up on a TV show, a critical letter because I imply that farmed salmon is as good for your heart as wild salmon, indignant retorts from people who take themselves quite seriously. But cowboys, they just say, “Ya know that story where the cow jumps in the pickup with the guy, that happened to me, too.” Which goes to show, as Jim used to say, that “You don’t have to be humble to be humiliated.”

How could you not like a vegetarian? It would be like not liking a monk, a Libertarian party candidate, or a dairyman raising Jersey cows. Ya gotta hand it to ‘em. They’re swimmin’ upstream livin’ life the hard way. But I admire them because they have to be true believers. Even though they may secretly buy a Holstein, eat a burger or vote for Ralph Nader. And organic farming? It’s just some hard-working folks that have found a niche! They have given up trying to save the world, they just hope there are enough people in their congregation to keep ‘em in business. Kinda like the Episcopalians.

The cattle business is booming yet we’ve got cattlemen fighting with each other for the right to lead the parade to the bank.

My world is plum full of hard workin’ people, all tryin’ to keep the wolf from the door and be a good neighbor. Sometimes life’s hard but it doesn’t mean you can’t find potholes of fun, or goofy, or silly, or kind, or caring, or poignant as you trudge along. Wade through ‘em friends, and track a little bit along the trail. It makes it easier for the rest of us. ANM