P. S. We proudly present two back-to-back stories from the same amazing author,
Roger Kiser. After you are done reading the first story (grab some tissues)
you'll understand why we are putting it in both publications. Then, you'll see a
remarkable follow-up story which occurred last week.
"Silt, Colorado!" Hollered the Greyhound bus driver, as he pulled off to the
side of the road.
I grabbed my small bag and climbed off the bus. Sitting beside the road was a
large man who was standing beside an old Army jeep.
"Are you Roger Kiser?" He asked me.
"Yes, Sir," I replied.
"My name is Owen Boulton. I own the Rainbow K Ranch," he said as he stuck out
his hand to shake mine.
I had been sent to Colorado by the Juvenile Judge in Florida so that I could
work on a ranch. It was a program that had been set up to help troubled
teenagers.
Within a week, I had been turned into a full fledge cowboy.
I had been assigned a large horse named "Brownie" and had been given a full
outfit of western wear, as well as a list of never ending duties which started
at around 4 o'clock each morning.
Things went rather well for the first couple of months. We worked from 4am until
6pm, seven days a week. We bailed hay, branded cattle, collected chicken eggs,
mended fences and shoveled cow manure. It was a never ending job.
The best part was my horse, Brownie. I guess she had been given that name
because she was brown in color. In addition to my other chores, it was my job to
care for her. I fed her, bathed her and brushed her down on a daily basis.
Every morning when I would come out to collect the eggs from the chicken coop,
she was always waiting for me by the gate. I would walk over and pet her on her
side. She would toss her head backwards and make a strange sound like she was
blowing through her lips. Slobber would fly everywhere.
"I bet you could sure whistle loud if you had some hands," I would tell her. She
would stomp her feet and turn around in a circle.
There were not very many things that I loved on the face of this earth when I
was a young boy. But that horse was one thing that I would have died for.
After we ranch hands had eaten our breakfast, I was told that I would have to go
with several of the older men and repair fences up on the northern range. We
loaded the jeep with fencing materials and tools and off we went. It was almost
7pm when we got back to the ranch.
As we drove up to the barn, I saw about twenty ranch hands all sitting around in
a circle. I got out of the jeep and walked toward the large crowd.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"It's your horse, Brownie. She's dead," said one of the men.
Slowly I walked up to where Brownie was laying in the corral. I bent down and
petted her on her side. It took everything I had to keep from crying in front of
all those men.
All at once, the corral gate opened and Mr. Boulton came riding in on an old
tractor. He began scooping out a large hole right next to Brownie.
"What's he gonna do?" I yelled out.
"We always bury the horses right where they drop," said one of the ranch hands.
I stood to the side while he dug the hole for Brownie. I would wipe the tears
from my eyes as they rolled down my cheeks. I will never forget that feeling of
sadness for as long as I live.
When the hole had been dug, the men all stood back so that Brownie could be
moved into the large hole. Mr Boulton lowered the large tractor scoop and moved
toward Brownie.
"PLEASE MR. OWEN SIR! Please don't move Brownie with that tractor bucket. You'll
cut her and mess her up!" I yelled out at him.
I ran out in front of the tractor, waiving my hands and arms up into the air.
"Look here boy," said Mr. Boulton. "We have no choice but to do this when a
horse dies. She is just too heavy to move by hand."
"I'll get her in the hole. I swear I will Mr Owen, sir." I screamed as loud as I
could. I ran over to Brownie and I pushed on her head as hard as I could, but
she barely moved. I pushed and pushed but her body was just too heavy. Nothing I
tried to do would move her any closer toward the hole. Finally, I stopped
pushing and I just lay there in the dirt with my head resting against Brownie's
side.
"Please don't use that bucket scoop on Brownie," I kept saying, over and over.
One at a time, the ranch hands began to get down off their horses. Each
positioned himself around the large brown horse and they began to push and pull
with all their might. Inch by inch, Brownie moved toward the large hole in the
ground. All at once she began to slide downhill. I raised her head, as best I
could, so that her face would not be scarred. The next thing I knew, I was being
pulled down into the hole.
Suddenly, everything went totally silent. I just sat there at the bottom of the
hole with Brownie's head resting on my lap. Dust and dirt was settling all
around me. Slowly, I got to my feet and I placed her head flat on the ground.
Then I positioned each of her legs so that they were straight. I removed my
western shirt and I placed it over her face so that dirt would not get into her
eyes. I stood there crying as my best friend was being covered with dirt.
Most of that night I stayed in the barn cleaning Brownie's stall. I cried until
I could cry no more. I guess I was just too embarrassed to go back to the
bunkhouse with the rest of the ranch hands.
Early the next morning, I walked back to the bunkhouse to shower and change
clothes before going out to collect the chicken eggs. As I entered the small
wooden house, the ranch hands were up and getting dressed. Laying on my bunk was
eight dollars and some change. On a match book cover was written, "Buy yourself
a new western shirt."
When I looked up, all the men were smiling at me. One of them said, "You may be
a city boy R.D. (that's what they always called me) but you definitely have the
heart that it takes to be a real honest to goodness cowboy."
I wiped my swollen red eyes and I smiled real proud like.
Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.
Trampolineone@webtv.net
___________________________________________
The following story occurred last week (June 16, 2004) -- several years after
Roger wrote the story above.
___________________________________________
I was not feeling very well when I got out of bed. I sat down in front of the
television and I began watching the morning news. After finishing my coffee I
walked into the bedroom and I put on my cut-off jeans and a polo shirt -- jeans
that my wife had threatened to throw away because the legs had strings hanging
down almost to my knees. I put on my baseball cap, walked out to my truck, and I
headed to the local book store.
"I'm looking for Chicken Soup for the Caregiver's Soul and Chicken Soup for the
Friend's Soul. Can you tell me if they have they been released yet?" I asked the
clerk at Books-A-Million.
"August and September are the release dates. That is what it shows here on the
computer," he told me.
I thanked the gentleman and then I walked over to see if I could find any
hard-cover editions of the Chicken Soup books which I already had stories in.
As I approached the Chicken Soup section, there stood several young girls
reading a story from one of the books.
"That has to be the saddest story that I have ever read," she told her friend.
I looked at the front of the book and noticed that it was Chicken Soup for the
Horse Lover's Soul. I picked up a book and I began to look through the pages.
As the two young women walked in front of me, I could see that the story they
were discussing was one that I had written. I wanted to tell them that I had
written the story but for some strange reason I just couldn't. For some reason I
felt completely embarrassed.
I placed my book back onto the shelf and I walked over to the Joe Muggs counter
to get a cup of coffee. After ordering a coffee, I made my way out to the
terrace. Several minutes later, the two girls came out onto the terrace, with an
older woman, who I presumed was their mother. They sat down at one of the tables
and the young girl began to read my story to the woman. When she finished
reading, the three of them sat there silently, for about a minute.
"I wish I could write stories like that," said the young girl, as she wiped her
eyes with a napkin.
"Katy, just put your mind to it and you can do anything that you want," the
woman told her.
"You gotta be real smart to write like that," said the girl, as she closed the
book.
I smiled when I heard those words, knowing all along I was not a very smart
person. I had only finished the sixth grade before being sent off to the reform
school by the orphanage.
I got up from my seat and I walked back into the bookstore to get another cup of
coffee. While I was at the counter, the three ladies walked back into the store
and asked the clerk for directions to the restroom. As they were about to enter
the bathroom the young girl rested the book on one of the tables.
I walked over and I opened the book and I wrote: "COWBOY HEART by Roger Dean
Kiser. Katy, you can do anything that you want if you put your mind to it." And
then I signed it, "Your friend, Roger 6-17-04."
When they came out of the bathroom the young girl picked up the book and the
three of them proceeded to the checkout counter. The mother paid for the book
and they left the store.
I'm not sure how the girl will react when she reads what I had written inside
the front cover.
Will she look upon this as one of those strange miracles? Was this my chance to
do an "angel" thing?
Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.
Trampolineone@webtv.net
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