I first saw his cowboy hat clearing the tops of the bushes. He was moving in my direction. Clearing the shrubs I saw a stately man, an older gentleman as it turned out. He wore an amply grown, white, handle bar mustache and an heir of confidence. A light colored vest topped a darker long sleeved shirt, flannel, I supposed, given the briskness of the desert’s dawn. His long denim covered legs were punctuated by fine looking, and well broken in, cowboy boots. Topping it all was what appeared to be his crowning glory, a well cut and very spiffy looking, ivory cowboy hat.
“What kind of dogs are those?” I heard his gravelly voice break the morning’s silence.
“Part Boston Terrier, part Bassett.” I responded.
“Those are fine looking hounds, he said. I’ve had several Boston’s.” A well tempered breed.”
During our exchange I learned that his was one of three big rigs parked next to us overnight, traveling together, headed for Colorado.
The rigs, each costing more than my house, no doubt, appeared to be more than well equipped. One pulled an equally elaborate trailer of mules, the other horses, and the third followed the two.
We chatted for a while in the darkness of the dawn, in the middle of a parking lot, somewhere in New Mexico – a cowboy, two dogs and me.