I had seen that truck pulling the horse trailer, before. It was a flatbed pickup truck with a goose neck style horse trailer attached to it. The rancher would let the horses out onto a green swale, for a tasty snack. In the bed of the truck a large border collie would pop out to the edge. Somehow he found a grip and didn't fall off.
What a noble creature! So enthusiastic and full of purpose and meaning. The dog looked around in all directions, so eager to get down to work. He was a Waaaahomn ranch dawg, and prawd of it -- Yippee I Oh, baby!
And yet I laughed at myself for being such a simpleton, so easy to please. What sight could be more common in ranch country than a contented dog or two in the bed of a pickup truck? But it was so classic. It was impossible to see something like this and not go away with a persistent afterglow: all was right with the world.
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Most afternoons the ritual of torture plays out. The clouds build up. Rain really looks possible. But there is only a few drops. How cruel Hope is!
But what do I have to complain about? I am camped at 9500 feet, close enough to some trees to get shade after 330 p.m. But the shade happens earlier because of those tantalizing clouds.
I try to negotiate with the weather gods: "we'll settle for 0.03" of rain. We're not greedy." But it doesn't work. Why am I so hard to please?
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