The rodeo is in full motion this evening in Dodge City.

Lights that haven’t shone all year are blindingly bright.

Bleachers, empty and dusty, have been dusted off and are filled to overflowing.

There is a sign, on a side street, that indicates parking for V.I.P.’s and contestants in the direction it points.  I see at least a hundred horse trailers and camper vans back there.

In the normal parking space, there are hundreds upon hundreds parked. 

Folks who don’t normally wear a Stetson have one perched proudly on their head. 

Guys and Gals, mostly on horses, some on four-wheeler’s, all dressed up in their glad rags, are regulating traffic and parking spots.

I hear the announcer’s voice booming out over the hot, humid air through my closed car window.

And I know what’s going on down at the bottom. 

Cowboys are waiting their turn to ride a nasty bull, or, in ones or as a team, to rope a panicked little calf that runs bawling out into the open, glaring light.

I know what rodeo’s stand for; they symbolize the old west and all this country used to be.  I’m not at all against keeping history alive, because without it, we lose a very necessary teacher.

And I’m not an animal rights activist, as far as I know; I think the Good Word says something about subduing the earth, and I take that to mean the animals, as needed, for the purpose of mankind.  And I don’t have a problem at all with the treatment those animals get, being much the same as the rodeo, out on the ranch for what it really is intended for.

But I get a little catch in my chest when I think about those animals there tonight, their fright and survival instinct on full display, and all so a few men can take home some glory. 

It seems like an unfair advantage and oppression with little regard for the animal.

I dunno.  Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age.