ᎢᎻᎬ ᎠᎡᏆᏙᎬ

Once a Wrangler, Always a Wrangler.

    I remember sitting on that old fence post outside my grandmother's apothecary thinking, Ol' Lenny's at it again. Messin' with those dang chickens.

    "Lenny! Leave those dang chickens alone! I swear I'll tell my Ma! I ain't scared!"

    I hopped off and stomped towards the little shaggy haired blonde boy who had a chicken by the tail feathers in between his grimy little hands. His eyes shot up in my direction and he was gone quicker than you could say "Licorice". I scrunched up my nose as I heard his giggling grow more faint as he extended his distance from me. That boy!

    I blew a strand of dirty blonde hair out of my face and set my old hat straight again. I pulled out my fathers old pocket watch that he had given to me. I flipped it around to the backside engraved with the words:

  To Lil Danny
"Once a wrangler. Always a wrangler."
I love you sweetpea.
-Pa
    I smiled and turned it back around to read the time. 12:02. Finally! I can go ride now! I love wrangling calfs, but I hate wrangling little chicken tormentors.

    I ran inside and got my riding gloves and gave the pocket watch to Ma, then I was outside again. The warm summer air gently blew across the dusty Colorado ground. The Pueblo trading post that started my town was busy with customers from here and away. Old Mrs. Hillsong handed a stick of licorice to a sobbing little girl, just as she had done for me when I was sad. My friend's brothers were wrestling on the ground as their mom was jabbing her finger in their direction and yelling at them with one hand and held her dress up as she was approaching them with the other. I giggled and continued towards my house, which was on the outskirts of ol' Pueblo, Colorado.

    I stopped in front of the gate at the entrance of my house, unlocked it, and opened it. There was a short, but wide path leading to my house that broke off into an even shorter one that led to my barn/stables. My house was a humble log cabin with two bedrooms and a kitchen, with trophy mounts and antlers on the walls from where Pa and grandfather went on hunting trips together. Grandpa doesn't really go anymore though, now that Pa died.

    I gave it one last glance before proceeding towards my barn. The stables were quite large compared to our house, with a total of eight stalls and two seperate rooms—one for tack and the other for feed—and to finish it off, it also had a decent sized hay loft. It was the most beautiful thing Pa and Grandpa had ever built. I pushed up the panel that held the entrance shut and pulled the doors open.

    You could see the dust floating around the different beams of light and hear the breeze hit the backside of the stables, along with it settling afterwards. The smell of horse manure, hay, and wood shavings filled my nose and I inhaled everything in one big breath. I smiled to myself as I was in my natural atmosphere, then skipped to the stall where my horse was in.

    "Hey boy!", I softly cooed.

    He jerked his head up and down and put his muzzle into the palm of my hand. He was the most beautiful paint you'd ever seen before. He was large, compared to other paints and quarter horses, and he had beautiful blue eyes. He was built like some kind of general or commander, like a sort of natural leader.

    War Hawk. That was his name. He was a grullo pinto that was faster than you can imagine. Before Pa died, he bred one of my friend's black and white paint mares, to his well known cattle wrangling chestnut quarter horse, Bullnose. Bullnose was a beauty, with two socks—one on his left front and one on his left back—and a wide blaze down his bridge and around his large, muscular muzzle. Now that my dad is dead, Bullnose just isn't the same. I know it would sound weird and all, but a blind man could see that he was sad.