My Life as a Cowboy Cowpie

by Bill Myers

  It was then I spotted Wall Street with her mom. I headed on over to greet them.

  “Oh, Wally,” her mom said, “you look so, so—”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, “adorable.”

  “Actually, I was going to say ‘wimpy.’” She grinned, having obviously heard my dad.

  “Thanks.” I grinned back.

  “Seriously,” she turned to Wall Street, “doesn’t he look cute?”

  “Whatever,” Wall Street mumbled, not even looking at me.

  Her mom threw me a glance. It was obvious she sensed something was wrong, but before she had a chance to say anything, Wall Street suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree. “There he is. There he is!” Taking her mom by the hand she practically dragged her toward Chad, who was approaching with someone who looked like his chauffeur.

  “Chad, this is my mom. Mom, this is Chad Diamond.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Wall Street’s mom said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Chad looked up from speaking with his chauffeur. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “Who?”

  “I’m Wall Street’s mother,” she said. “My daughter has spoken so much about you.”

  Chad’s face broke into a quizzical frown. “Excuse me . . .”

  “This is my mom,” Wall Street said.

  The frown deepened. “I see. And who exactly are you?”

  For a moment Wall Street stared. Then she broke into nervous laughter. “Oh, I get it. Very funny. Ha-ha. Anyway, I wanted to—”

  “I see nothing funny about it, miss,” Chad said in his snootiest voice. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have business to attend to.” With that he turned and started to walk off.

  Wall Street just stood there, staring . . . until she heard the laughter of some of Chad’s nearby buddies. She turned to see them all standing there, listening. Doing her best to ignore them, she ran after him. “Chad . . . Chad.”

  She caught his arm, and he turned back.

  He was obviously put out. “What is it now?”

  “I thought we were . . . you know . . . friends.”

  “Me? Friends? With the likes of you?” He gave a smirking laugh. “I hardly think that’s possible.” Then, shaking her off, he turned and walked away.

  I was wrong about Dad’s face turning the hottest red ever. By the looks of things, Wall Street’s face was five million degrees hotter. And the laughter of Chad’s nearby goons didn’t help, either. Yes sir, she had been embarrassed in a very big and very mean way.

  But that was okay, because Chad was about to get his in an even bigger and meaner way. Revenge, here we come. . . .

  * * * * *

  Forty-five minutes later everyone’s parents were sitting up in the grandstands above the arena waiting for the show to begin. There was no fence separating the seats from the arena so everyone felt nice and close. As I said before, we all had our assignments. Some got to be rodeo stars, while Opera got to be the concession cart pusher and I was a goofy clown. But that was okay, because Opera and I had a little extracurricular entertainment planned. . . .

  “You all set?” I called to him as we met at the horse pen.

  He nodded. With one hand he was pouring a bag of chips into his mouth (pre-drenched, of course, with Pecos Bill’s Flame Thrower Hot Sauce). With the other he was holding a bucket that Chad’s horse was eating out of.

  “Did you get the coffee?” I shouted over his Walkman.

  He shook his head and yelled, “Coffee maker is busted.”

  Disappointment started to wash over me. The plan was already failing before it began. “So what’s in the bucket?” I asked.

  He looked up and grinned. “Coffee beans. Fifteen pounds of prime-roasted coffee beans.”

  My disappointment turned to anticipation. “That’s going to be even better.”

  He nodded and continued feeding the horse.

  “Hey, Wally.”

  I looked up to see Wall Street joining us. “Hey,” I said. Then, after a century or two of uneasiness, I added, “I’m really sorry ’bout that thing with Chad.”

  She shrugged. “He’s a jerk. I should have listened to you.”

  More silence. Well, except for Chad’s horse munching and crunching. I tell you, that animal was really wolfing down those coffee beans.

  “So what are you guys doing back here with the horses?” she asked.

  I grinned. “Payback time.”

  Opera nodded and shouted, “Big payback time.”

  “For Chad?”

  “Who else?”

  It was Wall Street’s turn to grin. “So what can I do to help?”

  I grinned back. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes later and the show was in full swing. Chad had mounted his horse and eased him into the box. The caffeine from all that coffee had really made the animal jumpy. He was prancing and dancing like there were burs under his saddle. In fact, it was all Chad could do to stay on him. “Whoa, boy!” he kept shouting. “Easy now! Easy now!”

  The three of us exchanged knowing smiles. But the fun and games had barely begun. . . .

  “Stand by,” Cowboy Roy shouted to Chad.

  Chad nodded and threw a glance over to the chute where the calf was ready to be released. The calf he was supposed to chase down and rope.

  Now it was time to begin Part Two of our little plan. . . .

  “Oh, Chad,” I cried, holding up a camera to take his picture. He saw me and, thanks to his huge ego, couldn’t resist the opportunity to pose and smile. I fired off a picture, or two, or three

  FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

  and was immediately followed by Wall Street shouting, “Over here, Chad!”

  Though my flashes had partially blinded him, he couldn’t resist looking over to Wall Street and again posing for

  FLASH! FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

  four more photos.

  “Oh, Chad,” I shouted.

  Again he looked, and again:

  FLASH! FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

  By now the poor guy was so blind he couldn’t see a thing. But we still weren’t finished. I gave Opera the signal, and he reached through the fence to offer Chad’s horse a little drink—you know, something to help wash down all those coffee beans. But instead of water, it was an entire jar of, you guessed it, Pecos Bill’s Flame Thrower Hot Sauce.

  After two, three, four gulps, the horse suddenly reared up. Then he took off out of the box like a rocket, his mouth blazing with fire. And Chad, poor Chad, it was all he could do just to hang on.

  They say revenge isn’t supposed to be sweet, but I’ve got to tell you it was the funniest thing I ever saw . . . blind Chad, unable to see where he’s going, bouncing on an out-of-control horse that was running, jumping, and bucking crazily around the ring, desperately searching for something to put out the fire in its mouth.

  It was great. And greater still was the way the entire grandstands roared with laughter. I mean, the guy was definitely dying of embarrassment— just the way we wanted it—while Wall Street, Opera, and I were dying with laughter.

  Well, we were dying with laughter . . . until the horse finally found some water to put out its fire. Unfortunately, that water wasn’t in the arena, it was in a trough in the corral next to the arena. The corral that belonged to . . . Satan Breath. The corral whose fence Chad’s horse suddenly

  K-RASH!

  busted through.

  Immediately, Satan Breath charged out, puffing and snorting like a steam engine gone berserk. Once in the arena, he stopped and glared about, obviously not in one of his better moods. And then he saw them . . . all those nice people up in the stands. All those nice people with no fence between them and him. All those nice people who would make wonderful human dartboards.

  The big animal lowered his head.

  “BROOOO . . .”

  Then he began snorting and pawing the earth.

  From past experience, I knew what was coming next. But the aud
ience didn’t. Instead, they grew strangely quiet—but only for a moment.

  Because in the next moment, Satan Breath charged.

  And all those nice people? They were suddenly running and screaming for their lives!

  Chapter 9

  Somebody . . . Anybody? . . . to the Rescue!

  After a dozen tries, the crazed bull finally managed to lunge into the stands. He definitely had one thought on his mind. So did the people. They ran and jumped and scattered like rats from a sinking ship. Like lemmings off a cliff. Like people running, jumping, and scattering from one very angry bull. The big fellow had a point to make with those sharp horns, but nobody felt like sticking around to let him make it.

  I looked desperately about until I spotted Cowboy Roy standing by the calf chute. He was frozen in fear. I began running toward him. “Cowboy Roy!”

  Flip-flop . . . fall

  “Cowboy Roy!”

  Flip-flop . . . fall

  When I finally arrived, I shouted, “You’ve got to stop him! You’ve got to do something!”

  But he just stood there staring as if he hadn’t heard.

  “COWBOY ROY!?”

  “Huh . . .” He looked at me from someplace far, far away.

  “You’ve got to get Satan Breath back into his pen! You’ve got to save those people!”

  But he just kept standing there. I could tell he was desperate to help, but he was too scared to move.

  I turned back to the stands. Fortunately, the people were a lot better at running on the steep steps than the bull. (And a lot better at leaping off them to the ground.) The good news was, Satan Breath hadn’t been able to hurt a single one of them. The bad news was, that made him all the more angry. In frustration, he finally turned and half-stumbled, half-fell down the steps until he was back in the arena.

  Good. Now at least everyone was safe. Well, almost everyone . . .

  He turned his big head from side to side, huffing and puffing and snorting. And then he stopped. Something had caught his eye.

  Something over in his corral. I turned to look.

  I wished I hadn’t.

  ’Cause there, at the bull’s watering trough, stood Chad’s horse. He was gulping down the water like there was no tomorrow. But Chad was no longer on him. Instead, he lay on the ground a dozen yards away, flat on his back. It looked like he’d been thrown off, and it looked like he wasn’t planning on getting up for a while.

  Satan Breath gave a loud snort. Then he began pawing the earth. Finally, he lowered his head.

  I spun to Cowboy Roy. “You’ve got to do something!” I shouted. “He’s going to get Chad!!”

  But Cowboy Roy just kept staring. Oh, he tried to answer. He even managed to open his mouth. But the words would not come. It was exactly like Mrs. Cowboy Roy had said—he was scared to death of bulls and nothing could change it. Not even some kid about to get killed.

  Desperately, I looked all around the arena, then up to the stands. There was no one to help. No one but Cowboy Roy.

  “You’ve got to do something!!” I shouted. “You’ve got to help him!” But the poor guy just stood there, doing nothing.

  I spun back to Satan Breath. He was still snorting and pawing . . . building up his power . . . and his hatred. Any second he would charge.

  Chad lay on the ground less than thirty feet from the big animal. Somebody had to do something! And since I was the only somebody around, I guess that somebody had to be me. (Don’t you just hate it when that happens?) Before anyone could shout to stop me (and believe me, I was listening real hard for anybody), I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and

  Flip-flop . . . fall

  Flip-flop . . . fall

  raced into the arena.

  “Wally, what are you doing?!” Opera yelled.

  “Wally!!” Wall Street screamed.

  But I’d already made up my mind. I raced toward the monstrous creature shouting, “Hey! Hey, you! Hey, Satan Breath!”

  Unfortunately, the animal heard. With a loud, angry snort, he spun his head around to me.

  “Yeah,” I shouted, “I’m talking to you!”

  And then, as if I hadn’t done enough damage, I happened to remember what Mrs. Cowboy Roy had said about my little spinning bow tie. “That’s what Roy used to use to attract the bulls in the rodeo.”

  Oh, great, I thought, just great. Now for sure I’m going to get myself killed.

  Reluctantly, I reached into my baggy pants pocket. My hands were shaking so hard, it took a moment to find the little button. Unfortunately, I found it. Unfortunatelier, I gave it a squeeze.

  Immediately, the little red bow tie lit up and started to spin.

  And immediately I had Satan Breath’s undivided attention.

  Any confusion he had about whether to attack Chad or me was definitely cleared up now. The big animal snorted angrily, then whirled his entire body around to face me.

  So there I stood, trying to remember how to swallow.

  So there he stood, pawing the ground, preparing to charge.

  I lowered my head and began to pray.

  He lowered his head and . . .

  BEGAN RACING TOWARD ME!

  Now, the way I figured it, I had two choices . . .

  1. I could stand there and immediately get killed,

  or

  2. I could run for my life and delay the process by about 3.2 seconds.

  Decisions, decisions . . .

  “BROOOO . . .”

  But since I hadn’t had much exercise that day . . . and since running was supposed to be good for the heart, I decided to run. Run for my life and

  “AUGH!”

  scream. Well, actually,

  Flip-flop . . . fall

  Flip-flop . . . fall

  for my life and scream. Still, I was luring ol’ Bully Boy away from Chad, and that was the important thing.

  Up ahead, I spotted one of the barrels from Wall Street’s barrel race. And since I’d become such an expert at barrel riding and since Satan Breath was less than ten feet away from making me his personal horn ornament, I

  Flip-flop . . . fell

  toward it until I arrived and

  Flip-flop . . . leaped

  inside it.

  I tell you, it was great to be back home. Who knows, with a little remodeling, maybe hanging a picture or two, I could really get used to the place. Except, of course, for:

  K-thud

  roll, roll, roll

  K-thud

  roll, roll, roll

  my pesky neighbor. Thanks to him, everything was again spinning around and around and around some more until, suddenly, my home away from home

  K-BAMB!

  slammed into a fence post. Lucky for me, we hit so hard that the spinning stopped. Not so lucky for me, we hit so hard that I was

  Tumble, Tumble, Tumble

  thrown out of the barrel.

  So there I was, out in the middle of the arena, counting my broken bones and wondering how many organs I’d need transplanted when I once again heard:

  “BROOOO . . .”

  snort, snort, snort

  paw, paw, paw

  I crawled to my hands and knees just in time to see my old pal dropping his head and again preparing to charge. This time, however, I had no protection. This time we were going at it head to head. Not a great idea considering the hardness of his and the softness of mine. Even less of a great idea considering those troublesome horns.

  “Run, Wally! Run!” I glanced over my shoulder to see Cowboy Roy. It was good to know he’d finally found his voice. But by the looks of things, he still hadn’t found his courage. His expression said he was majorly worried and majorly concerned. (Probably ’cause I’d soon be majorly dead.)

  “Run!” He kept shouting. “Get on your feet and run!”

  I would have obeyed, but with my recent barrel spinning routine, I was so dizzy I couldn’t find my feet . . . let alone the ground to put them on.

  “Run, Wally! Run!�
�

  But it was no good. I was too dizzy. I tried but couldn’t stand. I looked back to Cowboy Roy. The man was a picture of panic. “Run!” he shouted. “RUN! RUN!”

  Again I tried and again I fell. There was nothing I could do. There was, however, something Satan Breath could do . . .

  He let out one final snort, pawed the earth . . . and charged!

  “WALLY!”

  I could hear the big animal snorting and puffing. I could feel the ground shaking and trembling. I could feel my heart stopping.

  “WALLY!”

  I looked over to Cowboy Roy one last time. And to my surprise, an amazing thing was happening. Something inside him had snapped. It was like he was going crazy. All at once, he was leaping over the fence and racing into the arena. He ran straight toward us, waving his hands and yelling. It was a thrilling sight . . . and one I was more than a little grateful to see.

  However, I would have been a bit more grateful, if it had been, oh, maybe two or three minutes earlier. Because at that exact moment I noticed a pair of bull horns driving toward my chest. A pair of bull horns attached to one very large bull. In a desperate attempt to avoid open-heart surgery, I rolled to one side . . . and just in time. The good news was, his horns missed my body.

  The bad news was, they didn’t miss my suspenders. Somehow he got his horns hung up in them, which was okay, until he lifted up his head. Because by lifting up his head, he also lifted up me. Even that was okay except for the . . .

  B-oing . . .

  B-oing . . . B-oing . . .

  That’s right. Suddenly, I was bouncing up and down in front of the big animal’s face like a human yo-yo. And each b-oing dropped me right in front of those hateful eyes and that snorting snout.

  B-oing . . . SNORT

  B-oing . . . SNORT

  B-oing . . . SNORT

  “Drop him!” Cowboy Roy shouted as he raced toward us. “Drop him!”

  Now, to be honest, I didn’t know if being dropped directly in front of Satan Breath was such a good idea or not—considering all those hoofs and horns and everything. But it didn’t matter. Ol’ Bully Boy had other ideas. Instead of dropping me, he began swinging his head back and forth, then around and around, anything to get me unstuck. Suddenly, I was doing a lot less B-oinging and a lot more