My Life as a Cowboy Cowpie

by Bill Myers

  K-RASH

  splinter, splinter, splinter

  Okay, next time he’ll remember to open the garage door before saving the day. But he’s barely out on the street when, suddenly——

  “Hey, McDoogle?” It was Cowboy Roy standing in the doorway to our little six-man bunkhouse.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I suggest ya turn that contraption off and get some sleep.”

  I glanced down at my story. It was definitely getting interesting. “Can’t you just give me a couple more—”

  “It’s up to you, but I figure you’ll be needin’ all the rest you can get . . . considerin’ what I got planned fer ya tomorrow.” He chuckled softly.

  “Tomorrow?” I swallowed.

  He chuckled louder. “Tomorrow.”

  I swallowed harder. “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Let’s just say today was a holiday compared to what I’ve got planned fer ya little greenhorns tomorrow.” With that, he shut the door. As he limped away, his little chuckles turned into out-and-out laughter. Talk about eerie. I suppose I should be happy that the man was finally starting to enjoy his job. But somehow I figured his idea of enjoyment wouldn’t exactly be the same as mine.

  Reluctantly, I reached over and shut Ol’ Betsy down. Whatever Chester C. Chessclub was about to face would have to wait. I figure, if a person is gonna die, it’s best he gets plenty of sleep the night before . . . so he’s wide awake and doesn’t miss any of the exciting details.

  Little did I realize that dying might be a treat compared to what Cowboy Roy had in store. . . .

  Chapter 2

  What a Burn

  “Okay, listen up!” Cowboy Roy shouted. White plumes of breath rose from his mouth as he rode back and forth in front of us in the corral. “Don’t ask me why, but this mornin’ I’m gonna try to teach you tenderfoots how to rope and brand them calves.”

  “What time is it?” Wall Street whispered from beside me.

  “Just a couple hours before God gets up,” I whispered back.

  “Now I’m sure you greenhorns have been whinin’ ’bout how hard I’ve been pushin’ ya, but—”

  “No, sir,” a voice boomed out from the end of our line. “That’s not true.”

  We all leaned forward to see Chad Diamond standing straight and tall in his brand-new cowboy hat and freshly pressed cowboy shirt.

  “What’s that?” Cowboy Roy asked.

  “I’m just saying, sir, that if we’re truly supposed to learn the fine art of being cowboys, you should be pushing us as hard as possible.”

  Opera and I exchanged looks of alarm.

  Cowboy Roy turned his horse and trotted up to him. “How’s that?”

  “Yours is a noble profession, sir. And, if we are to properly appreciate its true value, we should be exposed to as much of your skill and expertise as possible.”

  “Oh, brother!” I groaned.

  “What a jerk!” Opera moaned.

  “Isn’t he dreamy?” Wall Street sighed.

  I gave her one of my looks, but she didn’t catch it. She was too busy batting her eyelashes in Chad’s direction, and he was too busy flexing his muscles in hers.

  “So, you think I should be pushin’ you harder?” Cowboy Roy asked.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Now, I’m not a violent guy (with my size and athletic ability, getting violent with somebody is basically like committing suicide), but if I were about two hundred pounds heavier, I’d have gone right over to Chad Diamond and pulled his never-before-used hat down over his overly used mouth.

  Unfortunately, the guy still wasn’t finished. “And with Parents’ Day coming up,” he said, “the harder you push us, the more prepared we’ll be to perform for them.”

  And then the most amazing thing happened. Cowboy Roy actually began to smile. Well, sort of. With all the years of disuse it was obvious his smiler was a little rusty. Truth be told, it looked more like he’d just sucked on a lemon, with his lips sort of half-grimacing, half-sneering. But it was a valiant attempt, and we all appreciated the effort.

  What we did not appreciate was his answer: “Well, now”—he spat on the ground—“I think we can arrange to work you a little harder.”

  And what we appreciated even less was Chad’s response: “That would be swell, sir. Just swell. I’m sure the sweatier we get, the happier we’ll all be.”

  Once again, Chad threw a look over to Wall Street. Once again, she threw a look over to him. And me? Forget about throwing looks—I just wanted to throw up.

  * * * * *

  “I don’t get it,” I said to Opera as I gathered our ropes and headed into the arena, where a fire was heating up the irons to brand the calves. “What does she see in him?”

  Opera shrugged. “Maybe a better question is, what does he see in her? I know Wall Street is our friend and everything, but Mr. Heart Throb over there could take his pick of any of these girls.”

  I glanced around the corral and had to admit he was right. Not that I’m an expert on girls (it’s hard to be an expert on anything that won’t give you the time of day), but when it comes to all the superficial stuff that superficial guys like Chad Diamond look for . . . well, let’s face it, Wall Street would never be superficial enough for him. So what gives?

  I looked back to the fire. Chad and Wall Street sat on the gate above it, the gate that penned in Satan Breath, the ranch’s one and only bull. Yes sir, Charmin’ Chad had definitely shifted into superflirt, and poor Wall Street was falling for it big-time.

  “Okay, McDoogle,” Cowboy Roy shouted, interrupting my nausea. “You’re up next. Just rope one of them calves there and bring it over to get branded.”

  I nodded. It sounded simple enough. Just open up the lasso like this, just twirl it over my head like so, and just throw it over the nearest calf ’s head like— “Not the fence post, McDoogle!” Cowboy Roy shouted. “The calf, throw it over the calf !”

  I nodded, retrieved the rope, and tried again. My throw was closer, but not close enough.

  “Not Opera, McDoogle! The calf! The calf!”

  (Some people can be so picky.)

  After unlassoing Opera, I tried a third time and . . . miracle of miracles . . . I succeeded. Yes sir, I threw that rope right over the calf ’s head. It was a work of art . . . well, except for the part of getting my leg tangled up in the middle of the rope . . . and the part where the calf decided to take a few laps around the corral, which, of course, meant I took a few laps, too.

  “Dig in your heels!” Cowboy Roy shouted. “Dig in your heels!”

  I tried to obey, but it’s hard digging in your heels when you’re bouncing on your head.

  “Dig in!!”

  “I’m’m’m’m try-ing-ing-ing-ing to-to-to-to . . . ,” I shouted, bouncing behind the calf like a basketball on too much caffeine.

  Suddenly, I had a brainstorm . . . well, more like a brainsquall . . . okay, more like a brain on a slightly cloudy day. The point is, I figured why don’t I make a slipknot on the other end of the rope and lasso the nearest passing fence post to bring us to a stop.

  A pretty good plan, if I do say so myself. And it would have worked . . . except that it took half a day to tie the knot (hey, you try tying knots while bouncing on your head), and another half a day to finally rope the fence.

  The good news was, I finally succeeded. The bad news was, well, that I finally succeeded. I lassoed the fence all right. Unfortunately, the fence was actually the gate to Satan Breath’s pen.

  The kids on the gate all screamed and leaped off, scattering like cockroaches in a Raid commercial. Well, most of them scattered. It seems Chad had a little something extra to do first . . . a little something extra like reaching over and unlatching the gate!

  What?? I couldn’t believe my eyes! What was he doing!?

  Suddenly, Satan Breath’s gate flew open, and the big bull bolted out. He thundered into the arena, shaking the ground as he ran. After taking a lap or two he snorted and slowed to
a stop. That’s when he spotted me. He snorted again, shook his giant head, then gave a loud, rumbling:

  “BROOOOO . . .”

  I’m not exactly sure what he meant since I don’t speak bull, but somehow I suspected he wasn’t saying, “Hi, there. Wanna be my pal?”

  So there I was, still caught in the rope, stretched between a calf running in one direction and the gate that had opened in the other. Talk about being strung out, talk about being a sitting duck, talk about giving new meaning to the term “Bull’s-eye.”

  The huge animal slowly lowered his head. He began to snort some more—harder, louder.

  In the distance I could hear Cowboy Roy shouting, “McDoogle, get out of there! Get out of there!” I threw a look to him. He was on the other side of the fence, afraid in a major lawsuit kind of way.

  Next, Satan Breath began to paw the ground—stomping and snorting. And finally, just to make things even more interesting, he decided to . . .

  CHARGE!

  Which, of course, forced me to

  “AUGH!”

  Which forced Cowboy Roy to shout even louder, “McDoogle, get out of there! Get out of there!”

  “Help me!” I yelled. “Help me!” It was obvious the man wanted to help, but for some reason he wouldn’t enter the arena. Instead, he began to pace. “McDoogle!” Back and forth along the fence he paced like some caged animal, all the while yelling, “McDoogle!”

  And then it happened. Somehow, some way, I was able to get my foot untangled from the rope. The good news was, I tore out of that arena faster than a cheap pair of blue jeans. The bad news was, I wasn’t exactly paying attention to where I was tearing.

  “Look out for the fire!” Opera shouted. “Wally, look out for the—”

  K-rash! K-smash!

  k-“ouch, ouch, ouch”

  Yes sir, I raced right through the branding-iron fire, tripping and kicking those red-hot irons in all directions. I even managed to kick one or two in with me as I stumbled out of the arena and into Satan Breath’s now-empty pen.

  And still, Cowboy Roy was too frightened to help. But not Wall Street. She leaped over the gate, into the pen, and quickly shut it before Satan Breath could reenter.

  Unfortunately, my little adventure wasn’t quite over. Not just yet. There was still one more sound effect to go.

  K-SSSSSSssssss . . .

  That, of course, is the sound a branding iron makes when it’s been kicked out of the fire, and the kicker accidentally falls backward onto it— causing it to burn through his pants and into his rear.

  That’s right, the calves weren’t the only ones branded that day.

  And my rear wasn’t the only thing burning. ’Cause as I looked over to Chad Diamond, thinking how he’d set me up, I was definitely smoking in a major kind of way.

  Chapter 3

  Shake, Rattle, and Yikes!

  I’d had enough. Oh, I know what the Bible says about forgiving your enemies, and that we’re not supposed to try to get even—but what does the Bible know about bucking broncos, branding irons, and Chad Diamond?

  And, as far as I could tell, there’s no place where it says I can’t collect a couple of snakes in the middle of the night, sneak up to my enemy’s window, and let those snakes loose inside his room. So . . . at the moment, Opera and I were busy climbing up the steep rocks behind the bunkhouses to find Chad a couple of little surprises. It might have been easier if

  BONK!

  “Ow, my shin!”

  it wasn’t so dark and

  BONK!

  “Ow, my other shin!”

  one of us had remembered to bring a flashlight. But it seemed a small price to pay to get even with Charmin’ Chad.

  “Wally, are you sure this is going to work out?” Opera asked as we made our way up the steep rocks.

  At first, I wasn’t going to answer him. “Work out?” What a ridiculous question. Hasn’t this guy read any of my books? But by the quiver in his voice I could tell he was getting pretty emotional, so I did my best to calm him.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Some of the guys saw a nest of harmless garter snakes up here yesterday. All we have to do is grab a couple of them, toss them into this bag, and let them loose in Chad’s cabin.”

  “And all I have to do is shake these Mexican maracas here, so he thinks they’re rattlesnakes?” Opera asked. His voice was even more emotional than before. In fact, it almost sounded like he was about to cry.

  “That’s right,” I said, “that’s all you have to do. Then we’ll see how brave the great Chad Diamond is.”

  Opera let out a loud sniff. Something was really eating at him. Finally, I turned to him and asked, “Are you okay?” In the faint moonlight, I saw big tears streaming down his cheeks. “Listen,” I said, “if this bothers you that much, I can do it on my own.”

  “It’s not that,” he quietly sobbed.

  “Then what?” I asked.

  He pointed to his Walkman, which he’d been playing extra soft. “It’s this song.”

  “What opera are you listening to this time?”

  “It’s no opera.” He sniffed. “It’s worse.”

  “What could be worse than those sappy-sad operas you’re always listening to?”

  He burst out blubbering, “This sappy-sad, country-western song.”

  I looked at him and blinked. “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head. Tears kept pouring from his eyes, and his bottom lip was trembling like Jell-O on a jackhammer.

  “Opera, you’ve been listening to classical music all of your life.”

  He nodded. “I know. But I thought country-western would help get me into the mood out here.”

  “And?” I asked.

  Without a word he ripped off his headphones and gave me a listen. I couldn’t believe my ears. It was true, he’d actually found music worse than opera. At the moment some woman was singing some typical my-no-good-man-has-run-off-with-my-sister-in-his-pickup-with-the-nice-shiny-gun-rack-I-just-gave-him-for-our-anniversary-before-I-could-tell-him-I-was-gonna-have-our-baby-who-I’d-name-after-him-no-matter-how-bad-he-treats-me song. You know the type.

  And before I knew it, I, too, was starting to tear up.

  “Isn’t it sad?” Opera sobbed.

  “It’s worse than sad,” I cried. “It’s awful.”

  Opera nodded, sniffing and wiping his nose. Soon, we were both crying like babies.

  “Please,” I finally gasped, “in the name of all that is good and decent, please turn it off. Turn it off!”

  Opera fumbled with the switch, and finally shut it down. “Really gets to you, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  I nodded, trying to catch my breath. “I’ll say. And the scariest thing of all . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was starting to like it.”

  Opera nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  I took a deep breath to clear my mind (or whatever was left of it), and focused my attention back to our mission of finding those snakes.

  “Wally,” Opera pointed. “Over there.”

  I followed his finger to a crevice just above us and to our left.

  “All right!” I said. I climbed up the remaining few feet. It was a small opening, not big enough for a normal person to squeeze into, but just right for us subnormal types like myself.

  “Be careful,” Opera warned.

  The clouds had parted, and there was just enough moonlight to see into the crevice. I could spot the little critters lying peacefully, sound asleep. Kinda cute in a creepy sort of way.

  “See anything?” Opera asked.

  “Looks like a bunch of little ones,” I said. “But no momma.”

  “Well, grab a couple, and let’s get down from here.”

  “I was hoping for something bigger.”

  “Wally . . .”

  “Oh, all right.”

  I reached in and very carefully grabbed one near its tail. Even though I’d been told they were harmless garter snake
s, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to be careful, just in case. I lifted the thing into the moonlight. It was definitely asleep, which was definitely okay with me.

  “Careful, Wally, careful.”

  “No sweat,” I said, pretending to sound calm as I opened the sack and casually dropped it in.

  I reached back into the crevice and grabbed another one by the tail. It was just as asleep as its brother (or sister), and I was just as grateful. I dropped it into the sack as well.

  “That’s enough,” Opera whispered.

  “There’s two or three left.”

  “Wally, that’s enough.”

  I wanted to agree and get out of there, but I also wanted to give Chad the scare of a lifetime. So, even though it was against my better judgment, I reached in for a third.

  “Wally!”

  I quickly pulled it out. But this one was starting to wake up. It was slowly twisting and curling.

  “Drop it in the bag!” Opera whispered.

  I didn’t have to be told twice. I was more than happy to drop it in with the others and close the sack. Then, slinging the bag over my shoulder, I said, “Come on, let’s get out of—

  “AUGHhhhh!”

  That last word was supposed to be “here,” but sometimes it’s hard to remember all the words when your feet are busy slipping and you’re busy

  bounce, bounce,

  tumble, tumble

  sprain a foot here, break a neck there

  falling down a steep, rocky slope.

  The good news was, the fall didn’t last forever. Even better news was, I managed to hold the sack high over my head so the little critters wouldn’t get squished. And by the time Opera (who insisted upon taking a slower route down) joined me, I’d pretty much regained consciousness and set most of my broken bones.

  “You okay?” he asked, offering me his hand and helping me up.

  “Sure,” I said, glancing to the ground and checking for any vital organs that might have popped out. When I was sure nothing too important was missing, I took a deep breath, threw the sack over my shoulder, and said, “Come on, let’s get going.”