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I have a love-hate relationship with tires.

Maybe it’s codependence.

I’m out of touch with most psychological terms, but I know I need tires.

They don’t seem to need me.

A month or so ago, a tire on my horsetrailer blew out as I hauled cattle to Great Falls. As I chiseled off the last lug nut that had been overtightened with an impact wrench, I might have mumbled.

I don’t know what a psychiatrist would call them, but a linguist would call what came out of my mouth “potty words.”

A couple of weeks ago, I took a load of ewes to Billings. I threw two spares in the back of the truck, just in