Who reads this column? That I can’t answer, but I do know who I write for.

I write for the guy (or lady or kid) with his feet in the stirrups, seat on the tractor, arm in a cow, and squint in the eye.

For the one who’s been hangin’ on so long, not because he’s afraid of fallin’, but just for the pure sake of bein’ there.

One who still takes pride in a well-set post, plowed furrow or a perfect brand. One who sees honor in helpin’ a neighbor, graduating a good kid, and takin’ your hat off for the flag.

I also write for Murphy. Based on the mail I get, Murphy is constantly inflicting his Law on my readers. I am never at a lack for inspiration. How many ways can one get bucked off, stomped, bit, run over, butted, hung up, pounded, pawed, drug, flattened, smoothed out, licked, whipped, stepped on, spit on, pooped on, peed on, calved on, shined on, fooled, tricked, outsmarted, buffaloed, horned, humped or humiliated.

Apparently, there is no limit.

The enduring battle between man and semi-domesticated large herbivores is the yin and yang, the gee and haw, the roadrunner and coyote, of life on the farm.

There may be certain people who read my column vicariously. The same way some are attracted to wrecks on the highway, Jerry Springer or stupid pet tricks on video. On the other hand, some may think of my column as a piece of beautiful western art that turkeys have been roosting on. They keep hoping underneath all the hoorah, prolapses and burning hats, there is some redeeming value. I welcome those readers who don’t always comprehend what I am trying to say. You are not alone. I practice imaginography, the art of making up words.

I do find that, as I mature, I am more tolerant of stupid viewpoints, more accepting of lunatic rantings, and more understanding of narrow-minded pinheads who haven’t seen the ball since the kickoff.

I write for those of you who don’t have much time to ponder the meaning of life. All of you who spend your days trying to step around the cow pies, who sometimes need a break. That’s me, a Baxter break. Think of me as the green speck on your new hat, the weak link in your serious philosophy, and your slightly off-center friend from “out there.”