The first cowboy I ever loved was born in a small rock house on a farm in Kansas. He went by his middle name, Dale. He ran away from home when he was 14 years old to herd cattle and sheep in Utah. He ate rattlesnakes, opossums, and anything that didn’t eat him. He loved the Green River. He loved horses, and almost all animals.
The first cowboy I ever loved was tough and had more than enough grit. He flew airplanes, he traveled the world, he defended our country. He took care of his family, he loved to read, and never met a stranger. He was fiercely independent and would do anything for a friend.
I remember a black cow hide slung across the seat of his blue pickup. I remember drinking cherry coke after cherry coke at the eagles club bar. I remember talking bout the Kentucky Derby, and making fake bets on the winner. I remember a scorpion paperweight on his rolltop desk. I remember so many wonderful things about the first cowboy I ever loved.
This time of year I sure miss him. He would always talk horses or read me the funnies in the newspaper. He always wore a stetson hat of high quality. So many wonderful memories I will never forget.
The first cowboy I ever loved was born in 1919 in a small rock house on a farm in Kansas. He was my Great Grandpa Dale. He was the greatest cowboy I’ve ever known. He was the first cowboy I ever loved.