Why I Eat Beef, and Other Idle, Combative, Thoughts

Why I Eat Cow
There was a point in my life when I thought I might become a vegetarian. I'm very fond of most animals, I thought all of them. My horses like it better when my breath smells vegan than they do when I smell carnivore.
Then I met cattle. I have to admit the first time I worked them I couldn't tell which side was head, and which was butt. I've been at this reined cowhorse thing for a while though. I won't call myself an expert, but I'm not totally in the dark anymore either.
Cattle aren't much more than hamburger on the hoof.
They are stupid. They are canny. It shouldn't be that way but it is.
Have you ever watched Night of the Living Dead? Or Shaun of the Dead? Look at the crowds of zombies. Look at a herd of cattle. Look at their eyes. Same deal. Stupid, but canny.
Cows can projectile poop on you when you run them through a shoot. And they do.
When you work a cow they drool, poop and pee at the same time. Every orifice is oozing on a cow at once, most of the time.
I saw a giant abscess on a cow's butt once. Right at the base of her tail. I swear it was bigger than my head. I wear an 8 1/4 hat too.
Another cow bumped into that abscess at the feeder.
It exploded. Mightily.
Cow goo shot across the whole herd. Green stuff was dripping off ears, tails and heads. It was smeared on their sides, it was running down their legs.
Not one of them lifted their head out of the feeder. Including the one with the big popped zit.

If we didn't eat cattle they would end as a species. If we turned them loose they'd just follow us around, waiting to be fed, goo oozing out of them. At least when they're penned up, I'm prepared to skate through the slimy piles of stuff that they leave behind. When I use them, I feel it's an even trade for keeping them alive.
There are only a few species of truly wild cattle,
The Gaur, the Banteng, and the Kouprey. They hang mostly in Asia, and there aren't many left.
Definitely not enough to knock some sense into our domesticated version. Our cattle have been bred to have the I.Q. of your average potato. They also taste great when served with said potato.
Personally, I can't feel responsible for the end of a species. So I eat cow.

Why I Wear Spurs

I like the way they jingle when I walk down the aisle in Whole Foods. It's the only thing that differentiates me from Moe, the Bridge Guy.
I like the way they make a point to my horse without making my legs tired.
I know that spurs don't make a horse go faster. They make a horse pick her back up. I am prepared to deal with just how high that back is going to go.
If I need spurs to make my horse go faster, I'll take them off and learn to ride.
My spurs are not Rock Grinders, but they are serious. I have learned how to use them, and I do. If my horse is afraid of my spur I need to take them off and learn to ride.
My spurs make this old suburban girl feel like a cowboy.

Why I Hate Box Stalls

In my business box stalls are a necessary evil. They allow more horses in a small space. They make the horses I train dependent on me for everything they need. Food, water, exercise, sun, fresh air, companionship. Horses in box stalls get the big picture much faster than horses that can run from me.
Horses don't want blankets, bedding, four walls, and closed doors.
Their muscles ache for room to run, when they can't see the open prairie, their minds close, and create behaviors that help them cope with the unending boredom of a stall. Naturally claustrophobic, a stall has to be the stuff of nightmares for a horse.
They are made to run, and fight, and play in a group. They need to bump back and forth, groom each other, lean against one another when they're
frightened. Out in all weather, shiny and fat in the summer, stuffing themselves as fast as they can, so they'll be ready to be hairy and thin in the winter.
I trade freedom for good behavior. Horses that work with me get turn out. They get time with friends. They get to roll and be muddy.
They eat and drink in their stalls. The hardest horse to catch is the last one let in to eat. If they want dinner, they put on that halter.
In reverse, they don't get out of their stall until they put their head in the halter.
Isolation makes them welcome my touch, my hand on their neck replaces a friendly nuzzle from a herd mate.
Boredom makes them desperate for mental stimulation. They'll grab at the training process in order to have something, anything to think about.
My training eases their anxiety. Anxiety that I create.
I use the hated stall to my advantage. It makes me sick sometimes.
All my personal horses learn to live in a stall. I get them out as soon as I can. I know it stays in the back of their mind. I know it helps me control them.
Spurs and reins are claws. Halters, ropes around their necks, only the wolf snapping at their nose to cut off precious air, and pull them into the pack. Our saddles, and our bodies on their backs, the lion in position to kill. The barn is a trap for the predator to pin them in.
We kid ourselves if we think it's anything less.
What amazes me, every day, every minute I spend with horses, is that they accept us. Not just as master, but as a friend. Horses are willing partners in this game we play. They get it. Way beyond our understanding of our own rules. It blows me away. I'm grateful for it.
Now I'm getting sappy. Gotta go.