“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.”
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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.