My Horse Got a Flat: Stories, Tales, and Lies from a Modern Cowboy

By Cory Gene Neumiller

Have you ever had a herd of cattle evolve before your very eyes from herbivores to carnivores during calving season? Have you experienced the thrill of having your left arm and right leg completely entangled in a lariat during a run of feedlot roping? Do you know how long a piece of PVC pipe should be for bull fighting? Do you know which "half-truths" can get you out of trouble with a city gal?

My Horse Got a Flat is a collection of humorous short stories about modern cowboying. All the important cowboy issues of the day are covered: horses, saddles, pickups, cattle, roping, women, and most importantly, storytelling (also known as lying to some folks).

So take a look and find out why cowboys always move cattle in a blizzard and learn the best ways to avoid losing the mirrors off a pickup when pasture roping.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 8, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462075607

Cory Gene Neumiller

Cory Neumiller grew up and still cowboys in North Dakota. He has spent his whole life working cattle, starting colts, riding roundups for neighboring ranches, and developing his storytelling (or lying) ability. He is a Dickinson State University graduate, as is his wife Nicole.

Book preview

THE GREATEST MUTTON RIDE EVER

Every young cowboy dreams of rodeo and I was no exception. I dreamed of Cheyenne and Vegas, Houston and Amarillo. So, at age four, I took up sheep riding. I only did it professionally once, but I competed heavily in the amateur circuit, mostly at my own private arena, known to the rest of my family as the corral. I also drafted my little brother into the proud ranks of the ASRA (the Amateur Sheep Riding Association), where I wasn’t just the president, but also a member. The club consisted of all two of us, and an occasional friend from town who usually only rode once and then demanded his dues back.

We usually stuck to ewes, but when the finals came around we would throw our rigging over a buck. We figured if you thought you were man enough to ride in the finals you had to prove it. The finals never had a set date, but usually was held on a warm, sunny day with a slight breeze and puffy clouds floating overhead, but most importantly when my parents weren’t around. At that point, we would lure the sheep into the corral with a bucket of feed and then proceed to rope our stock for the first go-round.

We had two different events, bareback and saddle. Bareback was more convenient because we didn’t have to mess around with pulling our cinches tight on the sheep, which can be pretty tricky. Our saddle consisted of a pad that mom had sewn stirrups and a cinch on for riding horses in the winter. One of us would hold the rope, usually my brother, while the other put the saddle down on the sheep and tried to jerk the cinch tight. The next step was probably the trickiest.

You had to persuade the other competitor to crawl onto the sheep. I repeatedly had to tell of fame and glory to get my little brother on top of the woolly. When that didn’t work, I usually had to threaten bodily harm. Finally, when the rider was in place, the assistant would take the rope from around the sheep’s neck and the ride would begin. Unlike saddle bronc, where you mark the horse coming out of the chute with your spurs, in saddle sheep you don’t use spurs for fear of them becoming permanently affixed to the wool, thus dragging you along after you fell off (our equivalent of being hung up).

Only once did I compete professionally, and it was at the tender age of five. At the big rodeos they called my event mutton bust’n, but nothing could be farther from the truth. They should have called it kid bust’n. I don’t ever recall seeing one of the sheep’s mothers running out there to pick up her bawling kid. Nevertheless, parents all throughout the Midwest thought this was great fun, and mine paid my entry fee. I drew a bad one, whose name alone still propels fear through me to this day.

Son, my dad said with a sound of panic in his voice. You drew Wilma. Now watch her coming out of the chute. They say she spins hard to the left. The last kid that tried her got his spurs lodged up in her wool and was drug around the arena until his mom rescued him.

This kind of speech was not one that adds to a young cowboy’s confidence, but regardless, I got on that sheep. Actually, somebody put me on the sheep. The rest is history.

Are you ready cowboy? the chute boss asked.

Get me out of here!

Whatever you say kid, and he jerked the gate. I think something was lost in the translation.

I tried to remember what dad had said about the sheep. Something about it going hard to the left, or was it to the right? It didn’t really matter. I found out later that sheep don’t spin. As a matter of fact, most sheep have taken a geometry class in their high school days and know that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Wilma must have been an honor student. She took off for the opposite end of the arena at a dead sprint.

I’ve heard all of the stories about famous eight second rides and how the old timers stayed on even after the whistle sounded, but I considered myself an innovator, always looking for new ideas, so I tested out my theory of a two-second ride. I bailed off the sheep, some would dare to say fell off, breaking the fall with my head. As I tried to get my directions straight, Wilma turned in the arena, pawed dirt, and came back for me. Some in the crowd claimed my second ride

The Greatest Mutton Ride Ever 3 was longer than my first, but the judges deducted points for style. Something about holding on to the sheep’s ears and my legs wrapped around her belly seemed to take away some of the elegance and grace of my ride.

I went home that day with my complimentary tee shirt and swore off sheep riding for good. Never again did I crawl on one of those muttons, but now days I will pay the entry fee for any young aspiring cowboy, whether he wants to ride or not.

ENDORSED BY MAD

I know there are lots of guys just like me out there. When you’re back in high school, you had a vehicle that was endorsed by MAD (Mom and Dad). It wasn’t your dream vehicle by any stretch of the imagination, but this is what you were bound to drive until you were out on your own. Some high school kids had vehicles given to them by their parents. Others, like me, bought their own, but were greatly influenced by parents. The typical car buying experience went something like this:

Dad, check out that truck over there. Its got four inch lifts, a 454, big old mud tires, an extended cab, CD-player, and air conditioning.

Yeah, I saw it, but what do you think of that ‘68 Pinto over there? Bet insurance is cheap on that one. Probably gets thirty miles to the gallon!

When the salesman comes over, dad tells you to let him do the talking since he is experienced and works out a real good deal on that Pinto. To be fair, though, my dad didn’t make me buy a Pinto. He didn’t make me do anything as far as a vehicle, but he did influence me into getting an economy pickup instead of a big old truck. But we all know what happens the minute we graduate.

"Thanks for everything. Mom, I love ya. Dad, thanks for the money. Gotta g°.

That’s right. Freedom is a word that flashes like a neon sign to new graduates. I hopped in the economy and headed out exactly one week after graduation. I picked myself up a job and within two months had traded off the economy and bought an extended cab truck with a gas sucking motor. I was wondering why the

Endorsed by MAD 5 salesman was laughing when I asked what kind of mileage I could expect out of it. Now I know.

But the first thing I did (and I know you did too) was call home and try to justify it. The conversation went something like this.

Guess what? I would ask innocently.

You need money again? was the typical, smart-alecky response.

Well, yes, but we’ll get to that later. I bought a new truck!

Take it back! Just take it back! I don’t know what you bought, but I’m sure it takes a lot of gas and probably has bald tires.

This is when I got really defensive. Sure it had smooth tires and got eight miles to the gallon, but my parents assumed this, which made it wrong.

Well, I figured I needed a truck for hauling around my horses and cattle.

Horse and calf, dad would correct, always so hypercritical.

The first time I brought my new truck home also brought up quite a conversation. My parents would point out every little blemish on the vehicle.

Son, did you see there is no passenger door?

Once again, hypercritical. Dad would make three or four trips around the vehicle, saying Um, and Uh, huh, and my personal favorite Ahhh! By this time my keys were just itching to hit the ignition.

You want to go for a ride, Dad?

As dad would laugh uncontrollably, maybe even rudely, mom would interrupt.

Sorry son. His life insurance policy hasn’t came in the mail yet.

After dad was settled down, he finally agreed to go for a ride as long as he could drive. He put the keys in the ignition and turned them, but nothing happened.

What’s going on?

Oh, there is a trick to starting it.

I then proceeded to tell my dad the trick to starting the pickup. First, run around the truck three times, then say the magic word, cross two wires under the dash, say the magic word