Column: Chew On This; The inner cowboy in all of us
When I was a little kid, I never had great aspirations to be a cowboy. Now after living in Cache Valley for almost four years, I can honestly say that I still don’t have any aspirations to be a cowboy.
I could probably live with the dirt and musty cowboy smell, but one thing is for sure: I will never be able to slide myself into a pair of those unbelievably tight Wranglers.
As a thick-thighed and large-reared person, I’d never even get to the stage where I could ask my wife, “Do these jeans make my butt look big?”
Instead, I’d be standing there in the bathroom tugging, wincing and running out of breath, trying to get the belt loops past my knees. My wife would inevitably poke her head in and while trying to restrain from bursting into tears of amusement, snicker and proclaim, “No honey, your butt makes your butt look big!”
That’s when I’d trip over the pant legs, and with a resounding THUD, donk my head on the toilet and collapse on the bathroom floor.
Then, while still sprawled on the floor, I’d come back to reality very grateful that I got a bachelor’s degree in physics, not ag science.
While I haven’t lately attempted to get into a pair of obscenely skinny pants, I discovered a way to be reminded yearly that I was never genetically allowed to set foot on a farm or ranch.
It’s called Baby Animal Days, put on annually by the American West Heritage Center in Wellsville.
Fellas, only two good things come out of taking a trip to see the baby animals. First, the woman in your life will immediately forget all the bad things you’ve ever done for a good three to four hours. So it’s a great date idea.
Second, it’ll remind you that as a city boy, the best place to look at farm animals is on HDTV from within the safety of your own recliner.
The one time I decided to spend a morning on a farm was entirely thrilling. A couple friends decided that I needed to help them milk some cows.
I could pretend to be a real-life cowboy! Or perhaps a real-life bovine poop target!
In the middle of the night, we were abruptly woken up by the farmer guy. I thought the house was on fire or something, but apparently the 330 bovines outside get a little restless if the milking doesn’t start by around 4 a.m.
Half asleep, I proceeded outside ready to battle the cows. The farmer herded them into a pen adjacent to the milking station, and I swear I could hear among the raucous snorts and moos, a few of the cows exclaim,
“Woohoo, city boys! We’ll git ’em good!”
When I got over to the pen, I turned on a flashlight and saw several hundred demonic, glowing eyes peering back at me. It gave me the heebie jeebies.
Next, I came face to face with what I affectionately call “The Fecal Trench of Death.” This milking station was trench-style, where 20 cows on each side would line up with their butts facing you, ready to attack.
The object of the game was to get the udder sucker cups on and off each cow without getting hit. I decided that a win in each round involved only getting your shoes dirty.
I did get hit that day. Luckily, it was getting kicked in the head rather than getting pooped on. The whack could have killed me, but then again, I likely would not have survived getting a head full of manure. Blech.
I won’t go into too many more details of that experience, except the last thing I remember was being shocked vigorously by an electric fence.
The cow milking experience taught me two valuable lessons:
1.) After four hours in the FTD, no matter how many times you bathe, you will always smell like a cow for full week.
2.) Wheelers weren’t meant to be farmers or cowboys.
So, if you see us this weekend at Baby Animal Days, you’ll see a big smile on my wife’s face, ’cause those animals are dang cute.
You’ll also see a big smile on my face from knowing that my future indoors with baggy jeans is decidedly secure for another year.
Garrett Wheeler is a second bachelor’s student in technical theatre design. Send any comments or questions to HYPERLINK “mailto:wheel@cc.usu.edu” wheel@cc.usu.edu.