Site search
sponsored by
Home
News
ENLARGE
Devon O'Neil
|
ENLARGE
|
"Here Playboy ... Here Playboy ... Here Pl— ... Uh oh."
|
Without intending to, we make eye contact, Playboy and I, our gazes locking over 100 yards of rolling Colorado desert.
He is a massive bull. Trained to buck the crap out of anyone who gets on his back. I try to communicate my intentions through my eyes: <i>Only here to observe, fella. You're the man. Don't mistake this-here mug for a threat. (Please.)</i>
"He's an impressive-looking animal," says the cowboy standing next to me, Han Smith. As I nod in awestruck agreement, our furry little bodyguard, a 20-pound heeler mix named Kayla, starts walking toward Playboy and the rest of the herd. Immediately the cattle shift their positions, moving away from us.
"But he's not a big fan of dogs," Smith adds.
This is good news. I'm not here to get mauled. I'm here to observe a couple of professional athletes in their offseason element. Here to see what life is like if you are two men in the middle of 82 women, and your only job is to impregnate them.
Playboy, along with the elder bull Malpractice, is spending the summer at the Rusty Spurr Ranch, north of Silverthorne, to spread his bucking genes. As a veteran of the famed Professional Bull Riders (PBR) tour, the spotted animal's lineage makes his sperm a valuable commodity among cowboys who raise bucking bulls for a living. The hopeful stock contractors, in this case, are those from the Culbreath Ranch; they own the cattle.
We approach from across the field of dry bush and round cactuses. Smith soon explains that Playboy's professional, "papered" name is Playpox - "he's related to Chickenpox, who was runner-up for bull of the year a few years back" - but the cowboys here call him Playboy, for obvious reasons.
Malpractice, a big, black monster with a face colored like a skeleton, is much older than Playboy and slightly smaller (1,600 pounds to 1,800 pounds), but he boasts a competitive history even more distinguished. He bucked in the NFR (National Finals Rodeo), Smith tells me, which would be like an aging pro football player having appeared in the Super Bowl.
At the moment, Playboy and Malpractice are standing within a few feet of each other. This pleases Smith, for not long ago they got in a fight that shook Grand County's ground.
He is a massive bull. Trained to buck the crap out of anyone who gets on his back. I try to communicate my intentions through my eyes: <i>Only here to observe, fella. You're the man. Don't mistake this-here mug for a threat. (Please.)</i>
"He's an impressive-looking animal," says the cowboy standing next to me, Han Smith. As I nod in awestruck agreement, our furry little bodyguard, a 20-pound heeler mix named Kayla, starts walking toward Playboy and the rest of the herd. Immediately the cattle shift their positions, moving away from us.
"But he's not a big fan of dogs," Smith adds.
This is good news. I'm not here to get mauled. I'm here to observe a couple of professional athletes in their offseason element. Here to see what life is like if you are two men in the middle of 82 women, and your only job is to impregnate them.
Playboy, along with the elder bull Malpractice, is spending the summer at the Rusty Spurr Ranch, north of Silverthorne, to spread his bucking genes. As a veteran of the famed Professional Bull Riders (PBR) tour, the spotted animal's lineage makes his sperm a valuable commodity among cowboys who raise bucking bulls for a living. The hopeful stock contractors, in this case, are those from the Culbreath Ranch; they own the cattle.
We approach from across the field of dry bush and round cactuses. Smith soon explains that Playboy's professional, "papered" name is Playpox - "he's related to Chickenpox, who was runner-up for bull of the year a few years back" - but the cowboys here call him Playboy, for obvious reasons.
Malpractice, a big, black monster with a face colored like a skeleton, is much older than Playboy and slightly smaller (1,600 pounds to 1,800 pounds), but he boasts a competitive history even more distinguished. He bucked in the NFR (National Finals Rodeo), Smith tells me, which would be like an aging pro football player having appeared in the Super Bowl.
At the moment, Playboy and Malpractice are standing within a few feet of each other. This pleases Smith, for not long ago they got in a fight that shook Grand County's ground.
"Malpractice got the crap kicked out of him," Smith explains. "If Playboy does too good a job beatn' him up, well then we won't have any Malpractice babies. It's good that they've figured life out."
When I first heard about the accomplished stock in town I was told the group included a bull named Gunsmoke; when I got here, however, he was nowhere to be found. As usual, my guide - with his long blonde sideburns, Fu Manchu mustache and cowboy hat pulled low - has the answer.
"I don't know if there's any good way to put this for the paper," Smith says, "but they took him out to get him tested because we think he's shooting blanks."
When I first heard about the accomplished stock in town I was told the group included a bull named Gunsmoke; when I got here, however, he was nowhere to be found. As usual, my guide - with his long blonde sideburns, Fu Manchu mustache and cowboy hat pulled low - has the answer.
"I don't know if there's any good way to put this for the paper," Smith says, "but they took him out to get him tested because we think he's shooting blanks."
Our attention turns back to the herd that is now about 50 feet away. Every animal in the area is staring at us, watching our every move, plotting either an exit strategy or an attack. At least that's what it seems to me.
"Don't worry about Playboy," Smith reassures me. "His primary concern today is his amorous intentions for whichever cow happens to be in season."
Smith points toward a protective mother cow with a stumpy tail and wide-open nostrils. "See her? That's who I'm worried about. She's a cowboy-eatn' machine."
The conversation turns back toward the bulls, and Smith, a former bareback bucking bronco rider who has spent much of his life around cattle, gives me his version of their life.
"They're a lot like professional athletes. They start getting that laid-back personality. They'll go out on the road and do their job and buck, and do exactly what they're supposed to do when the cowboy's on 'em, but when it's all over" - he turns to shake my hand - "it's like, 'Good game, man.'
"They get trailered all over the place, loaded and unloaded, they've got somebody that's always taking care of 'em, worrying about 'em, fussing about 'em. And then at the end of the year, they get to come out here and hang out with their girlfriends all summer."
"Don't worry about Playboy," Smith reassures me. "His primary concern today is his amorous intentions for whichever cow happens to be in season."
Smith points toward a protective mother cow with a stumpy tail and wide-open nostrils. "See her? That's who I'm worried about. She's a cowboy-eatn' machine."
The conversation turns back toward the bulls, and Smith, a former bareback bucking bronco rider who has spent much of his life around cattle, gives me his version of their life.
"They're a lot like professional athletes. They start getting that laid-back personality. They'll go out on the road and do their job and buck, and do exactly what they're supposed to do when the cowboy's on 'em, but when it's all over" - he turns to shake my hand - "it's like, 'Good game, man.'
"They get trailered all over the place, loaded and unloaded, they've got somebody that's always taking care of 'em, worrying about 'em, fussing about 'em. And then at the end of the year, they get to come out here and hang out with their girlfriends all summer."
After an hour of trying to get as close to Playboy and Malpractice as possible - I wanted to talk to them, see what they had to say about their good fortune - we finally decide it's a lost cause. Smith jokes that it's my wardrobe keeping them away.
"They're probably not used to seeing somebody wearing shorts," he says, estimating his Wranglered white legs have seen the sun five times in the last six years.
"And they're like professional athletes that way, too," he adds with a grin: "They're not the most cooperative when it comes to the PR and the press."
As we're driving back toward the ranch in Smith's beat-up truck, I finally understand what's in it for him. He looks after them, sort of like the herd's uncle. If one of the calves is sick, for instance, he plays doctor and takes care of it.
"It's kinda cool, ya know," he says in the truck. "Maybe three years from now some of these calves that I mighta doctored this summer, that were brand-new little babies and gettn' sick from somethn', and I gave 'em the shot of LA-200 that saved their life - well maybe in two, three years' time I'll turn on the TV and watch 'em on the NFR or PBR, just throwin' some poor cowboy on the ground and walkin' away laughing."
<i>Devon O'Neil can be contacted at (970) 668-4633, or at doneil@summitdaily.com.</i>
"They're probably not used to seeing somebody wearing shorts," he says, estimating his Wranglered white legs have seen the sun five times in the last six years.
"And they're like professional athletes that way, too," he adds with a grin: "They're not the most cooperative when it comes to the PR and the press."
As we're driving back toward the ranch in Smith's beat-up truck, I finally understand what's in it for him. He looks after them, sort of like the herd's uncle. If one of the calves is sick, for instance, he plays doctor and takes care of it.
"It's kinda cool, ya know," he says in the truck. "Maybe three years from now some of these calves that I mighta doctored this summer, that were brand-new little babies and gettn' sick from somethn', and I gave 'em the shot of LA-200 that saved their life - well maybe in two, three years' time I'll turn on the TV and watch 'em on the NFR or PBR, just throwin' some poor cowboy on the ground and walkin' away laughing."
<i>Devon O'Neil can be contacted at (970) 668-4633, or at doneil@summitdaily.com.</i>
