In the cowboy world, there is a stigma to wrangling dudes. It’s the equivalent of professional wrestlers in athletics or psychiatrists in the medical community. “Glamour jobs” in a world of hoof and horn.

COMING OUT

There are few things more painful to watch than the “coming out” of a cowboy.

I had known Don for twenty-five years. Known his family, sat at his table, and leaned on him now and then. He was a good ranch manager in his day. He did things the cowboy way and was honest as a cedar post.

I recently ran into him and we had a warm reunion. “Whatcha doin’ now?” I asked. He sort of hemmed and hawed. “Oh, I been doin’ a little day work for a fellow up the road.”

“On a ranch?” I asked.

“Not exactly . . .”

“A feedyard deal?”

“Well, no . . .”

“Let me guess,” I harassed him. “Yer leadin’ tourists around the desert on a bunch of ol’ plugs and tellin’ em what a great cowboy you were?” I laughed at my joke. He turned pale. I suddenly got embarrassed. “I was only kiddin’; I know you wouldn’t ever . . .” His eyes began to well with tears.

“You mean . . . ?” I asked. He nodded mournfully. “I’m wranglin’ dudes. . . .” I glanced around nervously, not wanting any of our cowboy friends to overhear.

“I just sort of fell into it,” he snuffled, and began to confess. I handed him my hanky. “We moved to town where my wife could get a good job. I tried selling western clothes, building saddles, even tried to be a movie extra, which is awful close to wranglin’ dudes, then finally this carny–kiddie ride guy offered me a job tendin’ his dude string. The grandkids were back with us, we needed the money.”

“It’s not so bad,” I said, patting his shoulder. “You’ll get back with the cows sometime.”

“No . . . I’m already a marked man. I’ve learned some yodeling tricks. They tip bigger if you tuck yer pants in yer boot tops and wear a stampede string. I’ve even started writing cowboy poetry. I go by the name Sagebrush.”

“Surely not!” I put my arm around him. It was an emotional moment. “Yes,” he said through the tears, “I even have names for the horses—Fury, Black Beauty, My Little Pony, Buttermilk. . . .”

I stopped him. “They have clinics, ya know. There’s one in Luverne, Minnesota. Not a tourist for miles. You can get back to basics. Saddle, rope, cow.”

“It’s no use,” he said, catching his breath and sighing, “It’s just that . . . I like it. They think I’m king of the cowboys! They like my stories. I’m a hero like John Wayne or Billy Crystal or Robert Redford . . .”

“Why they couldn’t even pack your saddle,” I snorted.

“I know,” he said, “but we’re all in show business.”

I shook my head sadly. “Sorry ol’ pal. Well, I’ll see ya. I gotta go make some promo spots for my next appearance at the big western Art Fest and Boot and Spur Show.”