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Now look in the mental cliche file that reads "cowboy."
That's Beau. He's got an open, thoroughly American face,
handsome in a weather beaten kind of way, with wheat blond hair
and honest eyes that are very, very blue. He's the only man I
know who can wear cowboy boots and a black Stetson without
looking self-conscious. That's because it's no costume to him.
He is a cowboy. Or was, from 1870 to 1881. But on July 8, 1881,
he ran into this dance hall girl who was a little long in the
tooth...
Which is why, when I met him in 1990, I mistook him for a
timber wolf. It was an easy enough mistake to make. He was
rearing at the foot of my bed, narrow forepaws on the mattress,
gray ears pricked and jaws gaped so that every fang in his head
gleamed whitely in the moonlight. It was a hell of a sight to
wake up to at 2 a.m., let me tell you. But you know the one that
goes, "his bark is worse than his bite?" It's certainly true in
Beau's case. His bite is wonderful.
As a result, I soon found myself haunting bars with him,
searching for somebody for us both to bite. Which is what we
were doing in Bottoms Up that night, whe
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