By Jameson Parker
Not lengthy after Simon & Simon went off the air, the writer was once shot two times and left for useless on a highway in la. bodily, he recovered quite quick. Psychologically, besides the fact that, the results have been way more critical and long-lasting, sending him right into a spiral of post-traumatic pressure sickness and melancholy. hence, virtually by chance, he ended up in a global of horses and farm animals and ranching that helped him live to tell the tale
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Additional resources for An Accidental Cowboy
I begin to walk my horse slowly in a semi-circle around the bull. I think of Hemingway, talking about the fighting bulls of Spain and how the pacifying effect of the herd instinct made them safe in numbers and dangerous only when alone. I remember a lecture from college on the “critical distance” of psychopaths, the distance they require between themselves and all other beings so they don’t feel threatened. I don’t know if bulls and psychopaths have the same requirements, but the results of their being threatened are very likely to be unpleasantly similar and I make my semi-circle as big as I can.
Again I gathered them into a herd, only now they were agitated—as was I—and difficult to handle. This time I got them roughly in the center of the pasture and drove them directly at the gate. This involved frantic galloping from side to side to keep them in a herd, but they moved forward until, at the gate, they divided like water around a rock, left and right, as if it were the entrance to hell itself. Not one damn cow went through. I reined up and looked at Mike. ” Inscrutable, he looked at me, at the gate, at his own horse, a pretty little green-broke mare with a tendency to buck.
The walls start to move in on me at crazy angles. And all at once, I can no longer breathe. No matter how hard I struggle, I simply cannot get enough air into my lungs, or out of them. I know what is happening, but I can’t help myself. I have to get outside. Darleen, still in her nightgown, rushes to change, to go with me, but I can’t wait. Shirttails out, pants unbuttoned, I hurry past the elevator—even the thought of waiting for an elevator is unbearable to me—down the stairs, buckling my belt as I pass through the lobby, out into the street.