fake it till you make it graduated back when dinosaurs roamed, technology speaking. Cell phones existed but they were clunky devices, poorly made and the size and weight of a masonry brick. Not to mention expensive. And the internet was still just a concept. So, there was no phone to text a professor for a consult and no google to google for a quick answer. It was me and my stethoscope and a glass thermometer lined up against the slings and arrows of farm animal ailments: truly fake it till you make it time.

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I hooked my boot toe clearing the door and went sprawling over the twelve inch drop off, and onto my side. The cow leapt through the opening, landed on my right wrist and left ankle, then slipped and fell on the ice as she tried to turn to finish me off. I dove back inside as she flailed for footing and the cowboy slammed the door from his perch on the fence. I was safe but shaken. Adrenaline is already nature’s ultimate performance enhancer and pain reliever. Toss in a generous cup of scalding anger. That brew can mask a lot of symptoms. I popped to my feet and did a quick body scan. All parts present and accounted for, dinged but functional. Mostly. A hot shower, a cold beer and my recliner teased from my living room, sixty one miles away. My stubborn streak prevailed. “Nothing’s broke. Let’s get finished up here, before we run out of daylight.” Dean, being Dean, had to comment. “You move damn quick for a short bald guy.” Fuck you very much, Dean. “I had some serious motivation.” Morning troops, I am old school, low tech so bear with me. I will get better at this.