Gambling is nothing new. That, my friends is a major understatement. What is new, however, is how common it has become. Every vacation destination seems to need a casino to draw travelers. A stop at the local convenience store for a cup of coffee also offers a chance to retire forever by way of a lottery ticket.

I am not writing this to slam the industry. Just the opposite. I’m here to admit to my major addiction to gambling. I am not a traditional gambler who must include a slot machine as a dependent on his tax return. Those folks are just wanna-bees in my gambling group. That group is known commonly as … ranchers, farmers and livestock producers. Our addiction leads us to bet an entire year’s income on what a 600 pound steer calf will be worth six months from now. Other members of my group plant corn in April and gamble it will produce enough yield in September to pay the costs of raising it plus a little extra for luxuries such as groceries, sending the kids to school and perhaps a vacation, one that I can almost guarantee does not include a trip to an organized gambling establishment.

Sue, on the other hand enjoys testing her luck at a ”one armed bandit,” aka slot machine to you none-gamblers. She is different from most, however, because she never risks more than she can afford to lose plus she goes into it knowing down deep, that she is going to win and, guess what, she usually does.

Since I approach the challenge knowing I am going to lose, guess how that turns out? Yep, I loose. That does not bother me because my cattle market wagering is thrill enough for me.

All us big time gamblers need a bookie to help finance our habit. These bookies, in our cowboy vocabulary are commonly called “bankers.” Mine likes me to write about him occasionally so I hope he finds the humor in his new title.

As far as I know, he fits the description of a bookie. He loans me the cash to wager on my unique addiction, the October calf market. I pay him regardless of whether I win, also referred to as paying my loan with profit from the sale of calves, or if I lose, no profit, I still have to pay him. That is known as interest.

I suspect my bookie is kinder than most. He doesn’t send a big guy to break my leg if I can’t pay. Instead he sends a nice lady out to the ranch to look over our assets.

She reports back to him and he loans me more money, usually at a slightly higher interest rate than before. “The Feds make him do it.” He will explain. The “Feds” as much as I can figure out, must be his bookie. They must also break legs because I can never talk him into lowering his minimum interest rate.

As far as gambling goes, I can’t be critical of any one who partakes of a small game of chance. Heck, how could I? My entire life, it’s been a gamble!