By Slim Randles
“Well that about tears it!” said Steve, twitching his walrus moustache. “How do they expect a guy to get by when they tell him what to do and to send money and re-up every dang thing in your billfold. It ain’t right!”
We hadn’t seen our favorite cowboy so worked up over something since the boss made him shoe the neighbor lady’s mule. He still limps now and then when the weather turns cold.
Steve had been sipping coffee and slitting envelopes as he combined caffeine and mail. As usual.
“Are you going to ask him?” said Doc, turning to Herb.
“You’re closer to him than I am, Doc. I might have to raise my voice. Weakens a guy.”
Doc grinned. “Okay, Steve, what’s the problem?”
“Licenses. Every dang time you turn around some guy behind a counter tells you you have to buy a license. Runs a guy straight into the poorhouse. It does.
“Why, you have to have a license for your pickup, and for your dog, and I’ll bet if a guy got married, he’d need a license for that, too.”
“You got that right,” said Dud.
“Them HAM radio guys gotta have a license, too,” Steve said. “Once you buy a license, they give you all them numbers and letters, so your buddies in Thailand know it’s you. I’m tired of it. We need a simpler way to live.”
“Okay, Steve,” Doc said, “What do you suggest we do?”
Steve grinned. “Everybody get a horse. You don’t need a license for the horse. You can get on him and ride him everywhere you go. Works out just fine, in my thinking.”
Doc smiled. “I have to go to a conference in Boston, Steve. Any suggestions?”
“Well, Doc,” Steve said. “I believe if I were you, I’d saddle up and leave now.”
Brought to you by the horses and other animals from their forever home at Masleña Rescue. Help feed one or two at www.masleñarf.org.