Three-Legged Stampede

Cole’s truck crunched up Wade’s drive just after sunrise.

Gravel popped under the tires. Dust lifted in ribbons behind the tailgate. I was already in the front seat — where I always am - nose to the window, tail twitching, breath fogging the glass.

Wade came out with his saddle bags, boots dusty, grin wide. He reached for the passenger door like it was his.

Cole didn’t look up. “That seat’s for him.”

Wade blinked. Looked at me — three legs, one stare — then climbed into the back without another word.

Cole scratched behind my ears, and we rolled out. Dust trailing. Sun rising. Rodeo grounds ahead. Steers waiting. And me? Paws itching for action—I was ready to work.

We pulled into Linden Valley Arena. The pens clanged, the chutes creaked, and the air smelled like hay, leather, and bacon from the concession stand. Cowboys stirred from their overnight rigs, brushing down horses and topping off water buckets, coffee steaming in hand — a long weekend of roping ahead.

Vendor trailers backed into place. Jimmy was already up in the booth, testing the speaker system. I leapt out, stretched, and scanned the grounds. Cole mounted his horse, whip coiled at his side. I trotted beside him, ears up, eyes sharp.

Warm-up runs came first. Steers needed movement before the real competition — run them through the chutes, back up the alleyway, get their blood going. I knew the rhythm. I knew the corners. I knew every trick they’d try.

One steer broke left. I dropped low and shot under the fence, scraping my fur on gravel and rust. Came up fast, dust in my eyes — the steer dead in my path. It turned. I barked once. Job done.

We ran them clean. Cole cracked the whip, I cut the strays, and the sun climbed higher. Kids started gathering near the rails. One offered me cornbread. I took it gently. No jumping. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.

Then it happened.

A gate slammed open — not the one it should’ve been. A cowboy had left it unlatched, distracted by his phone or whatever he thought was more important. A dozen steers burst out of the alleyway, hooves pounding, eyes wide. They weren’t heading for the pens. They were stampeding through the campgrounds — trailers rattling, folding chairs flipping, kids scrambling.

I didn’t think. I ran.

Someone shouted.

Someone swore.

Cole spun his horse.

Wade fired up an ATV.

Three others jumped on their mounts.

Too slow.

I was already moving.

I cut across the gravel, through the gap in the fence, and into the open field. My three legs hit hard — dirt kicking up, the ground trembling like it knew what was coming. I didn’t falter. I didn’t hesitate. I knew this stretch — the dips, the ditches, the fence lines. I knew what was at risk. Behind me, the herd barreled through the living quarters like a wrecking crew — trailers jolting, gear flying, breakfast still sizzling as it hit the dirt. It was a wake-up call no one ordered.

If they reached the highway, it was over.

The herd was moving faster now. Real fast. Dust kicked up in thick clouds — stinging my eyes, choking my throat. I pushed harder, lungs burning, ears flat against my head. I could hear the highway — the hum of tires, the distant honk of a semi.

I caught up just as the lead steer veered toward the road. I barked — sharp, fast, commanding. It flinched and turned. The others didn’t. They surged forward, a wall of muscle and panic.

I darted in, cutting across their path. One steer swerved. Another didn’t. Its shoulder clipped me hard, sent me tumbling sideways into the brush. I rolled, scrambled, leapt back up.

Cole’s voice cut through the chaos. “Jax! Be careful!”

I didn’t stop.

I ducked low and shot through a gap in the panels, came up hard in front of the herd, and barked again — louder this time, deeper. Not a warning. Not a plea. A command.

They hesitated.

They turned.

One by one, the momentum broke.

Cole and the others were there now, flanking the herd, guiding them back toward the arena. Wade circled wide on the ATV, kicking up dust. Cole cracked the whip once — sharp and clean. The steers moved.

I limped behind them, dirty and sore, but upright. The gate slammed shut. Dust settled.

I stood there, panting, coated in sweat and grit.

Wade climbed off the ATV, wide-eyed. “That dog works like he’s got four legs and a motor.”

The rest of the day settled into a rhythm. Steers ran clean. Cowboys swapped out horses. The kids held their dummy roping competition near the concession stand — laughter, rope burns, and a few proud dads filming from the sidelines.

One photographer laid belly-down in the alleyway, chasing that perfect shot. I spotted Cole bringing a fresh herd up the line. Barked twice in his face. The guy scrambled up the fence just in time, camera swinging, boots slick with dirt.

Cole didn’t say anything as he rode past. Just gave me the look. The one that means ‘good work’. The one that means ‘that’s my boy’.

When the sun dipped low, Cole whistled. Time to go.

I climbed into the front seat. Like always.

He slid in beside me, tipped his hat back, and said, “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

We didn’t talk much on the way back. Just the hum of the tires and the smell of sweat and dust. Cole’s arm rested on the window. His other hand on my back — gentle, steady. I stayed close, shoulder against the seat, watching the fence posts blur past, one by one.

The highway stretched ahead. The arena faded behind.

Tomorrow, they’ll open the gates again.

And I’ll be ready.