🔵 By Matthew Boivin. Photo by lauragrafie.
So much happened over the ten weeks I wore my cast that I wonder where to begin. The weeks passed fairly quickly even though every day seemed to try my patience. True to form, though, the adventures started back the day after my cast was removed.
Each day in the cast after Penny and I wrecked was a painful reminder of just how lucky I was to have only suffered a broken wrist. I count myself blessed even though it can be described as mixed at best. I am thankful to be able to walk, talk, and even work after a thousand pound horse rolled over the top of me when we crashed through a barbed wire fence. I do not blame Penny for getting scared, frustrated, or even angry with me. I accept the responsibility for putting her in a situation she was not ready for. In the end, though, after sorting all the emotional aftermath, it was just an accident. There is no blame on anyone; it was just something that happened.
At first, the hard cast was a good thing protecting my injury, but it quickly became annoying. I seemed to hit it on anything no matter how careful I was. The sharp stabs of pain shooting through my body with every bump kept me on my toes. I quickly learned to keep it out of the way. Learning to sleep was a different story, though. The stiff cast extended to my elbow, making it practically impossible to bend my arm. The only comfortable way to sleep was with my elbow resting on the rack and my forearm sticking straight up I the air. It appeared as if I was waving to the barracks throughout the night. That would become uncomfortable, and I would roll over. Then I would knock myself in the head with the rough cast, waking up at all hours angry until I fell asleep again. The worst part was the smell! The stench of dirty feet followed me everywhere. I cannot count how many times I dreamed someone hit me in the head with a dirty gym shoe.
Finally, though, the cast came off. After ten weeks of wearing a stinky old shoe on my arm, the call came for me to report to the infirmary. Of course, that call only came after the Deputy Warden, the Farm Administrator, and my own pre-lawsuit paperwork pushed the infirmary to do their job; but, I was so glad to get it off, the two to four weeks extra did not come up. I walked to a treatment room where they plugged in an old rotary saw straight from a B-rate 1980’s horror film. I put my arm on the counter, and the male nurse proceeded to cut the stinking thing in half, cracking it open like a walnut. I had to fight my arm out of the shell, but I was so determined to be rid of this mess, the pain did not matter. In order to pull my arm free, I had to straighten it, and that made me rethink my opinion on the pain. The surge of unfiltered hurt when that tendon stretched after ten immobile weeks took my breath away. I was finally free of that wretched cast! I stood for several long moments breathing through the pain before the head nurse asked me to perform a few mobility tests. She proudly declared the x-ray determined I was “anatomically aligned” even though my wrist is visibly crooked.
The day after the cast came off, I was back on Bow. Lifting my saddle to his back was a challenge with my tender wrist, but that pain was not enough to deter me. I was not about to let a little soreness stop me from spending time with who has become my best friend. I missed my horse, and that was all there was to it. Climbing back into the saddle just felt natural, I had been on the ground for too long. Of course, I have to admit I had a nervous moment when I first settled into the saddle. I just chalked it up as a touch of post-traumatic stress. My wrist was so tender, I was essentially one-handed up there, but cowboys have been riding broncs one-handed for who knows how long. Still, I was not trying to be a hero on my first day back in the saddle. Bow took care of me, though, not even pretending to want to cut up under saddle.
The whole crew saddled up with me. We had a bull to catch, and he had enough size to be a genuine hassle. After only a moment riding, Bow and I were back in rhythm again. I could feel someone else’s hands on my horse, though. The other riders’ bad habits were all over Bow’s behavior. Fortunately, he and I were back together. We would have time enough to get synchronized now, and this bull was a good a chance as any. Bow and I performed a few pivots, stops without rein pressure, and some turns off leg pressure only. I cannot stand an unresponsive horse. To me, a high-headed, hard mouthed horse is a sign of a poor rider who does not realize every interaction with a horse is a training exercise. Bow remembered his foundation quickly, so were ready when we made it to the pasture. The bull we were after was easy enough to spot – he was the biggest one out there. He weighed in at 1,900 pounds when he was turned out with the cows and did not appear to have lost much.
Bow and I were at a disadvantage against this beast of a bull. For one, my saddle was stripped while I was in the cast. The other guys took my saddle bags, my breast collar, and even my cinches. I retrieved my cinches but was not really worried about the other extras. I would gather them later. Turns out, I should have reclaimed my pulling collar. The other disadvantage was that I had no strength in my wrist to throw a rope. It was far too early in the healing process for roping. Bow and I hazed the bull while the other hands threw ropes at it. One finally landed around the big fella’s head, and the fight was on.
Patch locked is front legs in and held the bull on his own as the hulking brute stretched the rope taut. Poor Patch was pivoting around his planted feet as the behemoth ran in a circle at the rope’s end. When the beast stopped to catch his breath, the supervisor slipped his rope around the bull’s head, dallying to his horse, Poncho.
Poncho is new to the Beef Herd and deserves an introduction. He is a state pony sold at auction who, through a convoluted path of twists and turns, wound up at the Cummins Beef Herd as the supervisor’s personal horse. I suppose Poncho caught a technical parole violation and has to do a little more time. The little 5-year old gelding has some growing to do if he is going to keep hooking up to bulls twice his size. Poor little Poncho weighs in around 900 pounds or a little over, but certainly no more than 1,000 pounds. Bow and Patch are our biggest working horses weighing nearly 1,300 pounds each. Poncho was bred for agility, not strength. As soon as that rope was tied to the saddle horn, that bull pulled against it, taking the saddle sideways. The supervisor had to slide under the rope to avoid being dragged out of the saddle, but, to Poncho’s credit, the horse held the bull. Our supervisor was on the ground standing beside Poncho with the saddle hanging sideways, but Poncho did not panic (even though he had every right to.) Bow should have been holding that bull because Poncho was too light and had no business tangling with a bull that size. Hence the reason I should have reclaimed my pulling collar.
Poncho was in a dangerous position, prompting us to move fast. The bull was as caught as the was going to be, and I hopped off Bow to doctor the bull where he stood. There are very few things quite as exciting as sticking a 16-gauge by one-inch needle under an enraged bull’s skin in the middle of a 200-acre pasture. He may have two ropes around his neck, but the rest of his body was free to twist, kicks, and otherwise express just what he thought of us at that moment. Right before we finished the injection, he lunged, breaking the syringe with the needle still in his hip. I had to reach in with my good hand to snatch the needle out of his flesh. Getting the ropes off the neck of this fool was equally challenging. Each time I had a rope almost clear, he would swing that huge head at me, trying to knock me away. We finally freed his stubborn self and went in search of other sick cows. Bow was standing right where I left him, watching me prove to myself I was back.
It was not long before we spotted a mama cow with a limp. As the weather heats up, and the grass grows plentiful, so, too, do the bacteria find plenty of perfect little places to breed. One of their favorite places is a cow’s hoof, leading to foot rot. If left untreated, a minor bacterial infection can lead to an abscess, which leads to any number of greater problems. A limp can mean far more than a simple injury and this mama definitely had a case of foot rot. I let the others chase her around until I saw a rope around her neck. Unfortunately, the tail of the rope was not tied to anybody’s horse. The cow was trotting straight to the wooded bar put to hide from us in the water. Bow galloped toward the treeline, and I hopped off mid-stride trying to catch the rope trailing behind the cow. One of the other hands cut in front of me so I yelled, “Wrap it around a tree. Wrap it around a tree.” When the cow made it to the water and stopped, he finally wrapped it around a tree. It did no good now that she was belly deep in stagnant water, and I had other things to do. I left them to their own devices and stepped to Moody, who was under a new hand. I reclaimed my pulling collar from his saddle anticipating having to pull this cow with Bow, but by the time my saddle was right again, the rope was off the cow. All the better anyway. I was not, however, going to stand by again and have Poncho doing work he was not ready for. When I mounted Bow and settled into the saddle, I rubbed his neck, affectionately with both hands, happy to be having adventures with my best friend again.
A full week passed before my next adventure. A Monday meeting with a Deputy Director about the fences trickled down to me being stuck on a bulldozer clearing fence lines. I do not mind operating that old Caterpillar lever-operated D-7, but I would much rather be on a horse. Saturday came, and Bow and I were back in cahoots. We spotted a calf with a wheeze in his breathing in need of some antibiotic. I uncoiled my rope and made a few practice throws. My wrist was still tender after only nine days out of the cast, but all that mattered was that it did not hurt as bad to throw the rope. Every day I squeezed a stress ball for an hour and stretched my elbow for another 20 minutes. I will not rest until I can do the same things I was doing before the accident. After my practice throws, I felt confident I could handle a little 200-pound calf. I spotted the little wheezer alone and walked him out from under a tree before trying my hand. A made two quick spins of the lasso and let it fly. My loop hit him on the nose but was too small to drop over. No problem; Bow and I still had not left a walk. I recoiled my rope, made my loops bigger and caught him this time. It usually takes me more than two throws to catch a calf so maybe my crooked wrist improved my throw. An infection under the skin, and the hob was done. It may not seems very much of an adventure, but my wrist held up. After ten weeks in a cast, roping a calf was enough of a victory for me to count as an adventure in its own right.
Wearing that cast was a learning experience for me. No doubt it was a painful lesson, but I learned just how deeply ingrained my determination has become. I refuse to let my now crooked wrist keep me from my goals of being a farrier and horse trainer upon release. I found my life’s purpose seemingly by accident on a prison job assignment. Nothing will stop me from fulfilling that purpose.