Ahhh, the hours I've spent in some remote spot gazing at the distant stars.  Well, maybe not that many hours but more of late than when I was younger.  I didn't rightly appreciate those things back then. 

I'm a lover of all things rodeo so, as I search the skies for that great bull outlined in the stars, I coax my imagination into seeing a rider atop its massive back with his spurs dug in and free arm waving.  There are those who will scoff and that's alright, I guess.  But if he ain't up there, he sure ought to be.

Now that I'm in my waning years of star-gazing, I've begun to notice that I place much more significance on the comforts of life.  I'm not quite ready to call myself a tenderfoot yet but it seems that in my youth, I failed to notice all the razor-toothed, Neanderthal, mega-bugs who's existence seems to depend on their ability to bite, sting, stick, stab or generally puree my mortal hide.  And this doesn't take into consideration the rocks, trees, bushes and weeds who's obvious purpose on this earth is to gouge, scrape, rasp or otherwise mutilate this poor, tender epidermis.

I'll long remember returning to camp to find Prickly lying on his bedroll with my 12-gauge draped gracefully across his chest.  I thought maybe he was taking a nap but as I approached, I could see that his eyes were open and he looked as wild as a mouse birthing a peach seed.  He seemed to be scanning the sky for something.

"Buzz again, you blood-suckin' little %$#.*&$%," he said.

He burned up about six boxes of shells on that trip but at least he managed to keep them scattered.  However, the ones he hit were a little short on nourishment.  They pretty much fried down to nothing.

Later, we put our heads together (which produced a combined IQ of about 23) and discovered that the answer to our problem was remarkably simple.  All we had to do was take the comforts of home with us.  So, amidst cackles from our more outdoorish friends, Prickly and I embarked on another adventure with about 9,000 pounds of gear (give or take) thrown randomly in the back of my Ford F-150.

I offer this sampling of how things ought to be.  Of course, the pioneers didn't have it this good but then again, a lot of them died out there.  What they wouldn't have given to know the joys of a Frigidaire.
 

Me and Prickly
Riders on the range.
Like Gene and Roy
Lash LaRue and John Wayne.
Lightnin' fast on the draw
Makin' them bad outlaws pay.
Like they did for Woodrow Call
And Augustus McCrae.

We're true pioneers!
Tough as can be.
But there's no use bein' uncivilized
And leave home without the t.v.

And then there's the kettle for my biscuits
And a big pan for fryin'.
And one of them there blowers
In case my hair needs dryin'.
And a Frigidaire and a v.c.r.
I smuggled from my den.
Gotta get those mattresses aired up
And the air conditioner plugged in.

Then we'll sit around the campfire,
With the stereo turned low.
Cuttin' whiskers with my 'lectric razor
And watchin' HBO.
With that satellite dish ahummin'
The coyotes sing harmony,
To Bob, Hank and George
And an occasional chorus from me.

We got just the bare necessities
To make our time well spent.
But we might have to sleep outside now
'Cause ain't no room left in the tent.

Yep, just me and Prickly.
Riders on the range.
We'd like to go chase outlaws,
But, we're out of ice again.

Dang!

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