Old Cow Museum

Like soldiers from the front, they come hobbling—veterans of time’s war—dragging limbs, comporting brokenness—shambling on to assemble at the trough. The heifer with a turned back foot is always in the lead, maimed in calf-hood in a bovine crush, and culled from the August load to stow here, unsalable, where she’s grown and got bred out of season when a Brahma bull spirited in and fertilized her like Danae.

The elderly blind dam smells her way to feed—outpaced by the throng. We can’t send her to market—that maze opened on the trailer door as grim as her own labyrinth —where and how would she go? They’d foot us a bill for the pathetic parody played out. Here she stays until death closes her paddock of memory: every shallow and rise branch, and barb relearned again in her daily trace unless she must follow her ear—or reckon the air.

Time stands still in the Old Cow Museum, time present, time past that empties and fills the wombs of calf streams. Time of no season, no accounting as the daily orb arrives to no consequence. Where the crippled brahma that can’t make it down the lane, glows in the distance like a cumulonimbus over the Bahamas. She calved, her first year in captivity, whelp—slight as her udder— melted into the woodwork soon as we caught sight of him. Here she stays, barren augury of an unspoken beatitude— violating every scruple of cattle-breeding— companion to the arthritic angus matron bought one year in the Carolinas at the end of a sale. Attrition could be her name as she struggles to her portion like your grandmother through the aisles of the grocer, cries loudest when Sunday’s brunch must wait ‘til after church. And every calving season orphans emerge— to count among the world’s brood, be added in: the first timer’s get she wouldn’t own, an unclaimed twin,

Daughter of the cancer-eye cow that withered away two months shy of the wean, a listless starveling of the fretful

Madonna of the swollen teats—taken and given to shoulders and wits, and wastrel whose mammy up and died mid-winter, she—wild as a snake—to be gotten out and finessed into this house of mishap; anyone in this business needs what they contain: an out of the way place, quelling grain, and peace of ancient dames.

Attheendofsufferingthereisadoor.

And some bright morning, we’ll find another gone off to the unfenced field, a shadow curled beneath a bough: collect of leather and bone, gather of manure, birds already there. And what we’d always taken for the wind, an unceasing benediction.

Clint Raulerson

Immokalee

Fifth generation rancher and former PRCA bullfighter Clint Raulerson hails from a family that came to Florida in the 1800s. His dad and grandfather were renowned cowboys. “It’s all I ever wanted to do,” says Clint, who is now managing a Nextgen Cattle operation in Kansas. His cowboy poetry is born from the things he’s experienced as well as the stories he’s heard from others.

Clint published "Cowboy Legacy, A Lifetime in the Saddle,” a compilation of poetry and short stories, in 2016 and plans to re-release it this year, along with two new books. He’s also working on a children’s book series.

“White Cadillac” is based on a true story experienced by a fellow cattleman’s wife out at Yeehaw Junction.

White Cadillac

And a lady in a Cadillac with the worst kinda luck

The Semi was driven by old Billy Beam A load to the market would make for a good day it seemed Ole Billy left Bull Hammock about noon on that day Rolling along with a load of beef cows makin’ his way

From the Martin county grade to hwy 70 he shifted through every gear He’d made this trip to the market a 1000 times over the years

But today was a day he’d never get out of his mind Cause what was about to happen would put the whole outfit in a bind

Ya see when Billy reached ole Hwy 441 the stop light was glowin’ red So he eased her to a stop, his heavy load weighing 1200 lbs a head

He was sittin’ there a waitin’ for his light to turn green Then something happened like nothing he’d ever seen

He looked in the mirror and here came a big fancy Cadillac car It was too fancy for Chobee it was kinda bizarre

It was long and white and it had no top It pulled next to the trailer and that’s where it stopped

And that lady drivin’, she looked like she was straight outta Hollywood Bleached blonde hair, low cut top and fancy fingernails said she’d been livin a life that’s good

And what she didn’t see was one of those cows had her hind end to the side And you know that old cows belly was shaken from this long truck ride

What happened to that poor lady next was kind of obscene Cuz out of that ole cow shot a substance that was green

Her face was a look of shock and dismay At what had came out of that danged old Charolais

She tried to go but couldn’t retreat And that green recycled grass landed right in her seat

From that high up it hit that seat and it scattered In her hair in her eyes even in her shoes it splattered

Billy got out and tried to assist

But that lady fussed and hollered and hissed

She drove away cussin’ with a mess on her clothes

And she really needed an old water hose

So remember folks If your traveling through old Okeechobee in your convertible Cadillac

If you like your pretty clean seats, you better stay back!!!