What a fall we are having! Temps in the seventies and maybe warmer. Very little wind. Beautiful evenings with great sunsets. Grass is still green and trying to grow a little bit. Harvest is winding down. Cattle are being worked and the sales are starting to get a little bigger.
Now, I buy some cattle. Not a lot. I don’t like to be called a cattle buyer. That reminds me of the story Jack Chase used to tell. It seems the circus was passing this small town in western North Dakota. I think it was Grassy Butte. As the circus was going by, a rather large monkey fell out of the lead truck. The entire caravan ran over the poor monkey. One of the local folks saw this flat, dead critter in the road and reported it to the local sheriff. Well, no one could figure out what this creature was. They called in the county coroner, a rancher who lived down on the river, and he couldn’t figure it out. They called in the local minister, and he was stumped. They called in the kid who had gone to college at the Agricultural University, and he had never seen anything like it. They had pretty much decided it was some kind of alien when this old cowboy stopped by in his pickup. They asked him what he thought it was. The old cowboy looked the corpse over and said, “It’s a little hard to tell, but going by that bald spot on his ass, and that dumb look on his face, I’d say it’s a cattle buyer!”
That’s how I am. Dumb. Every week I buy a few cattle. The next week I could have bought them cheaper. I need bigger trucks. And I always have trouble filling a load. Cause I am selective. And cheap. Went into the ring the other day and Roger had just bought four six-hundred-pound steers. Black. Just what I needed. Except they were about a quarter Holstein. I kind of teased him about the market being a little high on dairy cattle. He said those cattle improved a lot after he bought them, and might get better as the day went on. Midnight rolled around and the sale ended. I nearly had a load. I needed about twenty-five hundred pounds to fill out. I went to Roger. He had four six-hundred-pound, fancy black steers that he was willing to part with. I bought them. And you know what. They were exotics, not Holsteins.