We are in the middle of the Storm of the Century, or at least the Storm of the Day, considering that I live in Montana and snow, negative degrees of temperature, no sun, and frozen everything are common. We are at -4 right this minute, colder than a witch’s whatever. Even Cody is cold, spending his days in front of the fire. I’ve been knitting caps like crazy, and the Cowboy has a pile, and he can choose to wear one-at-a-time or stack them on his head, multiple layers when he goes out to run the tractor and plow our driveway, against my better judgment, of course. He likes to plow, so he usually plows the neighbors’ driveways, as well. What a swell neighbor he is! I, however, am smarter, taking the weatherman’s advice, three words: “Don’t go outside,” he said. So here I am, playing with my computer.
I was considering this when we drove back from Billings yesterday and noticed a pickup inching along the farm road that parallels the freeway. You know the kind, it consists of gravel and weeds, next to a field of corn stalks sticking up through the snow. Those side roads seldom have traffic, and since it was snowing, it was also white and looked like old-man Ice Cycle had paid it a visit. I wondered where the pickup was headed, believe me, nothing is nearby, no houses or shops or stores. Just Montana farmland, a few fences, and a cow with a new calf off to the side of the pasture. Brr, what a day to have a baby. But then, I saw the purpose of the farmer’s travels. His dog, probably a cow dog, probably middle aged, but probably well-loved was running, rather trotting along the side of the pickup. e HHThat farmer was walking his dog, or rather driving his dog. The cowboy said it was a border collie/Aussie mix. He’s often right, so maybe. Now, I know the necessity of exercise, even for animals, although Cody doesn’t like it much except when he is chasing a deer, but it was below freezing, and the farmer was in his truck. Shouldn’t the farmer either A. run along side the dog or B. put the dog in the truck? Just askin’.
You see a lot of funny things in Montana, this was just one. I’ve spent most of my life trying to be more knowledgeable and urbane (sophisticated, if you rather) and here I am, in Montana trying to figure out why cowboys exercise their dogs by pickup. It’s a puzzle.
As we continued down the ice covered freeway, the Cowboy explained that the first numbers on a Montana license plate indicate the county. You can tell if the driver is a city slicker or a genuine Montana rancher by the county and by the vehicle. He smiled as he continued, “Look, there is a ‘6’ prefix on a Tesla that just passed us.” Number “6” county is Bozeman, also known as Boze-Angeles, fastest growing county in Montana, and they are not ranchers moving to town, but largely émigrés from the west coast. They are not known for driving on ice and he was looking down, probably texting, as he engaged cruise control and auto lane control and swept by our F-250 pickup. Cowboy suddenly said with a smile, “Watch this” as the Montana Trooper, breezed by, red/blue lights flashing. Another one bit the dust. I wasn’t kidding. You see it all out here.
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