In fact, I have reams of personal experience that suggest they go out of their way to be as ungrateful as possible.

Take my left knee, which sports a fist-sized bruise courtesy of one of our yearling bulls – who stood watching me cut the net wrap off the round bale Greg had lowered into their feeder with the tractor, then calmly turned around and kicked me. Luckily it was a glancing blow or I would be writing to you from the orthopedic ward.

And just try doctoring any four-legged resident of this ranch and see how much they appreciate it. I’ve been clocked by a head-slinging steer who’d rather have hoof rot than take his sulfa pills. I’ve been dragged by a calf who, despite a nasty case of scours, had enough strength to yank me on my face and barrel through a bog and 50 yards of buck brush before Greg could catch up and get another set of hands on the rope (although I believe he could have moved a lot quicker if he hadn’t been laughing so hard).

Mother cows are the epitome of ungrateful. There I am, in the middle of a blizzard trying to wrestle a slimy newborn calf into a sled to haul him into a nice warm barn, and do you think the mother thanked me? She does not. She blows snot in my face and bellows threats, some of which she attempts to carry out even as I’m risking frostbite to save her offspring.

And I hate to spoil The Lone Ranger and Roy Rogers for you, but real-life horses are no better. Captain will launch a sneak attack from behind, biting me on the shoulder, if I’m not moving fast enough when I’m dishing up the grain. Then there’s Vegas, one of the laziest bums on the ranch when you’re riding him, but just let him see a little daylight. ...

A while back, during one of our cold snaps, Greg thought he should take extra hay out to the three geldings in the field west of the house. He loaded a bale onto the four-wheeler and hauled it up the lane to the gate, but as he drove through, Vegas blasted past him with Hank and Hollywood on his heels. Greg dumped the bale and went after them, making a lap around the inside of the hay corral before getting them headed back where they belonged.

Instead of going through the gate, they ducked left and thundered toward the house with Greg in hot pursuit, bucking and bouncing over snowdrifts to cut them off before they could get onto the lawn. They veered right and kept going until the fence stopped them a mile south. Rattling and banging over the frozen winter wheat field, Greg finally caught up and turned them around.

By then they’d been plowing through the snow for half an hour and they’d had all the fun they wanted ... almost. They took one more lap around the hay corral, then trotted back to where they’d started, pleased as punch to find the hay bale waiting there for them.

Of course they didn’t say thank you. But they should be pretty darn grateful Greg’s not the only one on this ranch dishing out the feed – or that might’ve been the last hay bale they saw this winter.  

Kari Lynn Dell is a third-generation cowgirl, horse trainer and rodeo competitor. She writes from her family ranch on Montana's Blackfeet Reservation. For information on her novels, short stories and other writing projects, visit her website.

PHOTO: This is Captain – the one who bites if you dawdle with the hay. Photo by Kari Lynn Dell.