What’s the difference between a Wyoming voter and a cow?

Sparks twisted in a tidy spiral above the ol’ campfire. The smoke, for once, seemed to gather in a neat column that avoided the bloodshot eyes of the cowboys. Even the nighthawks dove and swooped in ordered ranks. Everything appeared organized as the conclave of cowboys awaited supper.

“Hey, didja hear what that li’l Secretary o’ State feller did?” Sweetwater Slim broke the comfortable silence. “That pint-sized bastid up an’ sent all our personal information to the feds! Now them Deep State goons know ever’thing ‘bout us, and it don’t make me none too comfy.”

“Hold yer horses there, Slim,” Sourdough retorted. “Trump made him do that so’s we’d have safe elections. Don’t be a Karen.”

Slim bristled. “Made him, hell,” he said. “He did that to suck up to Trump. That there personal stuff is s’posed to be kept confidential, an’ that li’l munchkin is sellin’ us out to buy hisself a cushy job in D.C.”

Whiskery chins were scratched all around the campfire. “I’m confused,” offered Rawhide from Rawlins. “What information ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

Slim counted on his fingers, “Driver’s license, address, birthday, social security number, hat size, whether yer bellybutton is an innie or an outie. Iff’n yer a Republican or a commie … ever’ damn thing. Ain’t nothin’ private no more.”

Pearl snaps popped open in the night air as tuckered trail hands investigated their navels to see where they were on the political spectrum.

“Settle down,” cautioned Sourdough. “It’s to make our elections secure so’s that only certified Americans can vote. We don’t want outsiders packin’ our Legislature with half-wit barbarians now, do we?”

Nervous glances and twitching Stetsons punctuated the campfire light. Little Joe the Wrangler spoke up. “Still, it makes me skittish. There’s some stuff I just don’t want the gubmint to know about me. What if they go pokin’ into my internet browsin’ history? What if they use that stuff so’s they can round us all up an’ send us to a FEMA camp in Greenland?”

“Naw, they’ll prob’ly sell our info to Wall Street,” preached Deacon from Dayton. “So’s them telemarketers can profile us an’ target us with ads for beauty products an’ such. It’s all about the money fer Trump an’ them greedy weasels.”

Hackles raised all around the ol’ campfire and danders went up, as the drovers debated whether they were just pawns in some globalist game. Chests were pounded and proclamations of “the cowboy way” and “from my cold dead hands” merged into a gathering roar of individual liberty.

Sourdough, his vest festooned with star-spangled flags and MAGA campaign buttons, addressed the angry throng. “Hell, I thought y’all were patriotic Americans. Our gubmint needs that information to make our country safe, ‘specially our elections. Ya sound like a buncha bomb-throwin’ Bolsheviks, spoutin’ off ‘bout privacy this an’ privacy that.”

“Sourdough has a point,” interjected Powder River Pete. “We’s cowboys, ain’t we? Think o’ America as a cow herd. We brand our cows so’s ever’body knows they’s ours, an’ we know when strays sneak in. We gotta control ‘em fer the herd’s own benefit. We earmark ‘em an’ tag ‘em so’s we know which calf belongs to which cow. That’s how we keep the herd safe an’ pure. That’s why that li’l Secretary o’ State feller gave Trump all that info about us. He did it fer our own good.”

Sourdough picked up on the metaphor and continued, “Damn straight! Iff’n ya look at it that way, we’s just one big herd o’ cattle, and we gotta trust our gubmint to keep us safe. Ain’t a smidgen o’ difference between us an’ our cows.”

Cowboys understood cows, so the notion that government cared for its citizens the same way that cowboys took care of cows struck a chord. Nods and murmurs of agreement met Sourdough’s analogy. 

“Well, there’s one big difference ‘tween us an’ cows.” Trail Boss sauntered up to the campfire, and drawled his observation to the crew.

“All due respect, name just one!” Sourdough challenged.

Trail Boss smiled and answered, “We eat cows.”

At that, Cookie banged on his skillet with his six-shooter and declared, “Supper’s ready. Steak tonight, fellers. I’m outa beans.”