I'll start with an experience that was highlighted in my poem. I was about 8 or 9 years old and we were at the cabin. It was in the summer and the dog food was sitting on the porch in a bowl. It was disappearing faster than the dogs could eat it and at the same time grandpa's truck wasn't running very well. He lifted his hood to see what was going on and found dog food all over his engine, tucked in every nook and cranny. Grandpa walked to the cabin, got his gun, walked back to his truck, and started the engine. A Pack rat went bolting out of the truck's engine compartment and up the mountain, but he wasn't fast enough. Grandpa jumped out the the truck and without even aiming he shot the pack rat dead. Every jaw dropped excepted grandpa's. He had a wide grin. Grandpa walked a little taller that weekend. If I didn't know better, I would even call it a strut. A cowboy through and through.
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