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Hooter ran through his mental list
one more time as he started his pickup:
• Fresh-pressed Wranglers and shirts…check
• Shave kit…check
• PJs…check
• Cell phone and charger…check
• Roll of Copenhagen…check
• Business cards and billfold…check
• Piggin’ String…because you never know.
• Plane ticket…check…
Hooter was heading for the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association
Convention (NCBA) in San Antonio. He wasn’t much for the meeting
part of meetings, but when it was his turn to attend as the
official representative of the Rio Rojo Cattlemen’s Association,
he enjoyed the chance to meet new folks and swap ideas.
Plus, he was booked at the historic
Menger Hotel, just across the street from the Alamo. This is
where Captain Richard King himself—Civil War blockade-running
steamboat pilot and King Ranch patriarch—once had a suite of
rooms. Teddy Roosevelt had set up shop in the hotel bar to
recruit his legendary Rough Riders. The first public
demonstration of barbed wire had been held outside the hotel,
according to history books, and orders taken for the new
technology on the inside. Shoot, even Kinky Friedman held a
press conference there for what would be a failed gubernatorial
campaign.
As if that wasn’t enough, Hooter’s
old running buddy, Sammy Beavertooth was attending from South
Dakota.
Lonnie Johnson leaned into the
window. “Don’t spend all of your time gawking around and
whatnot. And, don’t you and Sammy get up to no good. Remember,
you’re there representing all of us.”
Hooter grinned. “If we get tossed
into jail, you’re the first one we’ll be sure to call.”
Lonnie spat a stream of Mail Pouch
at Hooter’s wheel.
“And, if any of those animal rights
pinheads show up to protest,” said Peetie, taking Lonnie’s place
in the window, “Don’t encourage them.”
Hooter rolled up the window and was
off to catch his plane.
River Shock
Hooter had been to San Antonio enough times over the years to
have some familiarity with that city’s storied River Walk,
meandering along the banks of the San Antonio River headwaters.
He knew that if you had enough coyote in you to need to be able
to see out, the picturesque path could be plumb claustrophobic.
That’s why if he ventured there alone or with others, he’d trot
back up to street level whenever steps presented the
opportunity.
It was on his second day in town,
before he’d hooked up with Sammy, perched above the River Walk
that Hooter spied her in the distance: Eunice Nicklecock. There
could be no mistake. This was the same pudgy Yankee who had
first accosted him a decade earlier when she was the senior
strategist from a group called People for the Ethical Treatment
of All Life (PETAL). At the time, Hooter’s retaliatory tactics
against the nonsensical organization had earned him a spot on
PETAL’s most wanted list.
Faithful readers of this column will
remember that Hooter ultimately introduced Eunice to some white
armadillos, and the horrifying legend surrounding them, which
sent her screaming into the night. Then, a few years later,
she’d escaped the Gentle Balance and Peace Institute in Wyoming
where she’d been resting her nerves against her will.
Through different means, Hooter once more dispatched Eunice from
Apache Flats to the folks in the little white suits.
But here she was, standing in the
middle of the River Walk, not so much handing out colorful
leaflets as thrusting them into the chests of passersby who had
to take the leaflets in self-defense. There was something
different about her, though, the way she rocked back and forth
on her plump feet, robotically shoving the leaflets at people,
her eyes pinballing about in constant surveillance.
Hooter, of course, made a beeline
for her.
He strolled casually toward her with
the rest of the crowd. He stopped in front of her as she pushed
the leaflet at him. “Heya Eunice, tangled with any white
armadillos lately?”
Eunice looked at him with a blank expression. “Pardon me? Can I
help you? Here.” And she handed him another leaflet.
Hooter reversed directions back to
his perch above the walk. He knew how to read people. He knew
that Eunice didn’t know him from Adam, that white armadillos
were buried so deep inside her memory that she couldn’t find
them.
Hooter looked at the leaflet: “Free
the Amoeba!” Good grief, she really had found a new low.
No worries, though Hooter, spying his watch and remembering the
meeting he needed to be at, I bet she’s in town all week.
Stirring the Cauldron of Creativity
Actually, Hooter was surprised at how much he truly enjoyed the
sessions the previous day at Cattlemen’s College.
The folks from the King Ranch
Institute for Ranch Management had shared a couple of
presentations that were truly outstanding. One had to do with
figuring out right-sized cows for efficiency, which started with
getting a tight loop on what efficiency is to begin with.
“Barry Dunn, Jennifer Johnson and
J.D. Radakovich came up with this,” Hooter relayed to Charlie
the previous night. “The most efficient cow is the one with the
highest milk potential that can, without reducing the percentage
of calves successfully weaned, repeatedly produce a calf by
bulls with the growth and carcass characteristics valued most in
the marketplace.”
“So, cow size doesn’t matter much as
long as they’re efficient?” Charlie wondered.
“Exactly. Just like Peetie has
always maintained.”
The other KRIRM presentation had to
do with how to make more money by taking advantage of anomalies
in the market-place—buying under the market and selling at the
market or over—what they termed market arbitrage, and making
more trades during the calendar year, what they called
increasing the asset turnover ratio. For a stocker operator like
Hooter, it made all the sense in the world.
“So, what’s that say about retained
ownership?” wondered Charlie, who for the past few years had
been retaining ownership in a portion of his calves.
“Well, they said retained ownership
has got its advantages, but the industry hasn’t spent much time
talking about its challenges, like lost opportunity, cash flow
constraints, increased risk and loss of flexibility.”
“So?”
“The bottom line is they used actual
numbers from King Ranch and compared what their returns per
animal unit would have been if they’d retained ownership in and
fed their own cattle, versus how they typically do things, which
is selling their ranch-raised calves, purchasing back lower cost
calves to background and to feed. All said and done, between
2001 and 2008 their average profit per animal unit ranged from
$147 to $487. If they’d retained ownership it would have ranged
from a plus $96 to a negative $154.”
“Wow.”
“Yep, wow,” said Hooter. “Then there
was a session on global economics. Greg Dowd, the NCBA Chief
Economist says he thinks the economy has at least hit bottom,
but recovery is going to be a long, slow ride. He also said it
didn’t matter how much money the government throws at the
stimulus because the world isn’t a one-nation economy anymore,
but a multi-nation one.”
“Wrong tool for the right job,” said
Charlie.
“Exactly. Did you know China’s GDP
has to grow at about 8 percent per year just for them to
maintain their social programs, and that the size of their
middleclass population is as large as the entire U.S.
population?”
Hooter could hear Charlie let out a
long, low whistle through the receiver. “You knew it was big,
but that gives it some perspective. What about interest rates?”
“He reckons it will be a while
before the government can increase them much.”
On and on went their phone
conversation deep into the night.
Now Hooter was off to meet with
Sammy and see what they could learn in the trade show. On the
way, he phoned Charlie: “You’ll never guess who I saw on the
River Walk…”
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