Anyone who works with stock, knows that injuries are part of the game. It’s not if, but when, and how bad. I am proof of that as each of my body parts has been altered in some way by my transactions with critters bigger and stronger than I.

Well my middle daughter has experienced a part of life with animals that has become lets say, par for the course for her parents.  Getting Kicked.  Specifically getting kicked in the face…

Now before you start sending me plastic surgeon referrals, or calling CPS, let me tell you that it was a grazing blow that left a small cut above her right eye.  She never lost consciousness, although it bled profusely (as head wounds do).  Her regular doctor was able to put 3 tiny little stitches in the cut, and we expect a full recovery, and little to no scarring.

Well she comes by it naturally.  Seems there must be a genetic predispositon since her mother recounted three scars from trauma and I have a history of trying to stop animals feet with my face.  Poor girl was doomed from the start I tell ya!

My first time was as a 10 year old, messing with a horse that I shouldn’t have.  I got a lot of looks at my resulting shiner, visible in the photo to the right.

The next occurance was as a late 20 year old and it inspired a poem. It always gets a laugh especially injury prone cowboys.

The Story of the Scar

“How did you get that scar on your cheek?” The fair looking buckle bunny asked
I didn’t know it was still visible, since it occurred so far in the past.

She was cute and downright interested, and on me I could tell she was sold
With a beer in my hand, and a couple under my belt this was the Tale I told

We had bought a set of beef heifers to replace the old dairy cows
And we had to vaccinate and Lutalyse ‘em, we’d better do it now

We didn’t have a squeeze chute but we had stanchions on the grounds
It kept the heifers from pullin’ back but their hind end still moved around

So dad hollered advice to grab their tail and then just push it up
It paralyzed their hind legs, he said they’d be gentle as a pup

It worked ‘til I came to that brockle-faced heifer, that high headed one in the line
I managed to tail her up gave her the shots and she stood there just fine.

I let down her tail and , well that re-engaged her bovine defensive gear
She caught me with a hoof on the cheek, while the other whizzed by my ear

You know I never saw a thing, all I heard was a sonic boom
I left my feet from the kick as if I was about to orbit the moon

Dad says he never saw the heifer kick just saw me lying on the ground
Spread-eagled in the manure with debris laying all around

She’d lofted my favorite hat twelve feet from the grisly scene
I was halloed in the mire by syringes, blood, and vaccine

So I staggered to my feet, covered in crap and leaving a trail of gore
When we reached the hospital though they halted me at the door.

A pile of green bloody clothes and a hosing off of my white hide
Was what required before medical repairs would even be tried.

Ten stitches and a cat scan later, I’d cleared the bees from my bonnet
The right side of my face looked like an eggplant with a caterpillar on it

I tried to sell her to the cattle dealer when I saw him there in town
But he saw my shiner and stitches, and then flat turned me down

He said, “When it comes to brockle face heifers, we don’t have much use
For a graduate of cow college, with a major in cowboy abuse.”

So we’ve still got her on the ranch and I always work her from afar
Every morning I get a reminder, when I shave around that scar.

copyright John Martin 2000