At lunch yesterday, I received a call that was a survey with regards to attitudes about smokeless pouches and vaping. Landi and I were at lunch with friends, so I stepped away from the table to take the survey. It was long and extensive, and I learned a lot about legislation and the positions various politicians had taken on the issue.
On my return to lunch, our conversation turned to the survey and my responses. I am adamantly against smokeless tobacco and vaping. I don’t like it at all, but I don’t like a ‘nanny state’ solution either. Both of the subjects do help people quit smoking, I concede, and that’s a good thing. Event though I quit 25 years ago, my lungs are shot from smoking. Vaping is worse on lungs than cigarettes. That’s why I don’t like vaping products. How ever, my deep an abiding hatred for smokeless tobacco is very, very different. It is a personal hatred.
Years ago, I lived on a farm that was located 13 miles north of my hometown, Jonesboro Arkansas. It was out in the boonies, and I lived there and caring for a bunch of registered Brangus cattle that my father owned. It was a wonderful place to live. I was living my best life. I was living the life of a cowboy. I had six horses to ride, and three pastures to maintain. I counted the cows every morning. I made hay and medicated the cattle. I put salt licks out. And there was beer, there was always plenty of beer. Life was good.
Just like most young cowboys of that time, I took up dipping Skoal. Skoal is a wintergreen flavored ‘smokeless’ tobacco. As the commercials used to say, “all it just takes is a pinch between your cheek and gum”. Walt Garrett dipped Skoal. Walt Garrett was a professional football player and rodeo cowboy. If he could do it, I could do it. I had a pinch in as I rode the perimeter of the pastures checking the fences for breaks and damage. I mastered the Clint Eastwood spit. If you aren’t familiar with the Clint Eastwood spit, watch The Outlaw Josey Wales. You’ll understand. I used to keep a six pack of semi-cold beer hanging from my saddle horn on those rides also, but that’s another story.
We had three pastures, the furthest from us was about 2 miles away from my trailer and the barn. I always used to carry a rifle with me when I rode so that were I to see a feral dog or a coyote, I would have the means to put him down. Feral dogs and coyotes prey on sick or small calves. I used to shoot them on sight.
One hot, summer day I was in the furthest pasture, riding Thumbtack and checking the fences. I had a pinch in, some semi-warm beer hanging from the saddle horn and was enjoying a leisurely ride around the pasture when I saw them. It was a pack of what appeared to be feral dogs about 200 yards away. That’s a long shot with a 30-30 and iron sights. Being young and stupid, I decided that was a shot I would take.
I guided Thumbtack to a spot of shade. He stood absolutely still as I contemplated the shot. It occurred to me that with Thumbtack standing so still, I wouldn’t even have to dismount. I could take the shot from horseback. This would save me valuable time. The dogs were moving, walking and sniffing, along a tree line. They could disappear at any time.
Carefully, I adjusted the elevation on my sight. I checked for windage. The thick air was absolutely still. Windage, therefore, was nil. I carefully aimed my rifle at the leader of the pack. He was a large, mongrel looking dog that was leading the way and setting the pace. “Always take out the leadership”, echoed in my mind. I spit, relieving myself of excess tobacco juice. I thought of Clint Eastwood. He spits before he shoots. I carefully sighted the animal. I exhaled, paused, centered on his body mass and gently squeezed the trigger.
I’m not sure what happened next, or even if I hit the dog. I do know that I hit the ground in a most awkward and unceremonious way. The abrupt impact cause me to swallow most of my Skoal. Hitting the ground like that also knocked the wind out of me, so I rolled around in the dust for a minute or so trying to catch my breath and gagging at the same time. Combining those to physical reactions into one simultaneous event is a fairly uncomfortable experience. I was pretty sure I was dying. Finally, I could breath. While I was still recovering from my near death experience, the Skoal began to afflict my digestive track.
It is well known that human beings should not swallow tobacco juice nor tobacco. This is for a good reason. Within five minutes of ingesting either or both, a healthy human being’s body will expel the offensive material by means of retching in a extraordinarily violent manner. It took me less than five minutes to experience that reaction, and it continued for quite some time. It even continued long after the entirety of the contents of my stomach had been expelled. Dry heaves are exhausting, and when they finally subsided, I looked up and saw Thumbtack, my trusty horse, standing patiently near by. I was relieved. It was not lost on me that the walk back to the barn and trailer from here wearing cowboy boots would be a long, slow and tortuous trek. No, my good horse Thumbtack had stayed in the shade and had stood by loyally all the while I moaned and groaned, rolled around and threw up in the dusty pasture. It was in this moment that I realized that Thumbtack, my majestic steed, was perhaps the greatest horse who ever lived. I was filled with gratitude. Even John Wayne’s horse could do not better than this, I thought.
I was left very weak by my experience. I was a little banged up by the landing I experienced when Thumbtack threw me. I wasn’t mad about that. After all, I had fired a 30-30 from atop the horse, and I reasoned that he might not have been expecting that. I had retched so much that I was drained and physically exhausted. I was glad Thumbtack, my friend, my trusty mount was there to carry me back to the trailer where I lived back over on the other side of the main pasture, some two miles away.
I stood up and brushed some of the dust and grass off. I looked around for my hat and I picked up my rifle. Just as I turned to walk over to Thumbtack, Thumbtack, reigns dangling on the ground, slowly turned and began walking toward the barn. I walked a little faster to catch up to him so I could climb on and ride back to the barn. Thumbtack walked a little faster. I trotted to catch him. Thumbtack looked back at me and trotted just fast enough to stay just out of reach. I stopped. Thumbtack stopped and just stared at me. I understood. Well played, Thumbtack.
I stood there in the hot sun for a few minutes contemplating my situation. I was battered from being thrown and exhausted from hurling. It was hot and I was dehydrated and still very sick. It was July or August. The sun was like a heat lamp, and the hot air was as thick as cold corn syrup. I was wearing dirty jeans and battered, worn out cowboy boots. Thumbtack, my luke-warm beer dangling from the saddle, looked back at me from his spot in the shade.
It occurred to me that I had just been outsmarted by a horse. Defeated, I started walking again. Thumbtack lead the long dusty, painful way back to the barn. If you have never walked two miles through a very dry, hilly pasture in the blazing sun on a windless, hot and humid Summer day wearing wore out cowboy boots, well, just skip it. It’s a long and miserable walk.
On this day, I learned (1) don’t fire a rifle from the back of a horse, (2) Skoal is an evil substance, and (3) my boots weren’t made for walking.
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