Bovis

At 7:40 this morning, I walked the dogs up my country road, trying to get us all some exercise before it got too hot. Fail. We were all panting five minutes in. I blinked away sweat, and the dogs bulldozed their noses through the dewy, tall grass.

About a half-mile up, there’s a farm. Or a ranch. I’m not sure I know the difference, actually…OK, I just looked it up. Turns out, a ranch is a kind of farm that raises horses, cattle, or sheep. So this place is a ranch because it raises cows and horses.

I just love looking at cows. I love their soft eyes and their improbable shape—how do they carry that tank on four, spindly legs?!

One of the cows in the herd took a break from his munching and swung his head toward us. His eyes were hard. A companion stopped and looked as well. Within moments, two dozen cattle were staring, rigid, at me and my dogs. We walked a little faster.

I’m not sure which one moved first, but all of a sudden, the herd was shifting toward us. I looked at the three pathetic wires that separated little me and my two pit mixes from six tons of bovine heft. It was clearly electrified, but somehow I didn’t think that would matter in a stampede. We picked up the pace, and those beasts trotted after us.

I was just starting to worry in a serious way, when Redford turned around and barked. Miraculously, every cow paused. Then they lurched forward again. He shouted at them several times, and they slowed.

I couldn’t tell whether Redford was scared or happy because his tail was flopping madly the whole time. My question was answered when we passed the ranch’s property line, and Redford squatted immediately and crapped his pants.

Hey, little buddy, no worries. I almost did the same thing.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

P.S. Both a friend and my brother worried aloud to me today that I might get dooced.

Of course I might. I think about it all the time.

But what I told both of them is that I value my self-expression more than I value any job. This blog has been transformational for me over the last year. (By the way, my blogiversary is coming up! Gifts welcome! I’m registered at Lord & Taylor! No I’m not!) So if I get fired because of what I’ve written here, well, that will suck big hairy goat balls, but so be it.

Can You Use It in a Sentence, Please?

Having always been a champion speller*, I find kids who can’t spell fascinating.

Today we were discussing class jobs. I wrote them all on the board, and we talked about what each one entailed. Then I gave the kids index cards and told them to write down their top three job choices.

This is what I got (and remember, all the jobs were written on the board):

  • sweper
  • bord worsher, bored washer (Ha—what would that person do?)
  • pencil sharpiner, pensel sharpiner, pencil sarper, pencel shapener, peneil shanpener (That last one sounds like a burning sensation you should see your doctor about.)
  • libraren, liydeary (Oh dear, someone has dyslexia.)
  • resekliler (Can you guess what this one is?)

*Cove Creek School champion, 7th grade—beat out my eighth-grade brother and cried because I didn’t want him to lose. Went to the district spelling bee, and got out on the word ‘abstain’. I didn’t know what ‘abstain’ meant (go ahead—make your funny jokes), and the way the lady pronounced it, it sounded like ‘obtain’ to me.

A Quest

Navigating her trusty barque through the Sea of Overwhelm, our protagonist finds her gaze diverted to the shore by a gentle beast who appears to be in distress.

Gentle Beast

“What ho?” she cries, and pulls alongside the struggling animal. “It appears thou hast a mighty thirst, young one. It is nigh 100 degrees of the thermometer today.”

The creature lowers itself to the turf and flops upon its side, exposing a pestilence-ridden underbelly.

“Oh woe, little dude, the mites that plague thee! And there is no flesh to cover thy ribs! Here, have a stale biscuit that has been in my satchel for perhaps weeks now, I don’t remember.”

The wretched thing accepts the morsel with gratitude. Thump goes the mutt’s tail against the ground. Crunch, crunch. Thump, thump.

“Well, I cannot forsake thee here. Should you attempt to cross this turbulent ocean, some Ford Squarerigger or Chrysler Schooner will surely run thee over. Nay, you must climb aboard my Subaru Barque, and I will carry thee to safety.”

The beast hesitates. Our heroine attempts to lure him into the vessel—alas, he is too fearful. She finally hoists him up in her arms and deposits him on the thwart. They set sail.

“Beware the Dragon of Cynicism to the east—see it there! It rears its head to spout negatory comments! Listen.”

“You will never find a home for that varmint!”

“You dastardly naysayer! I shall slay thee with my Harpoon of Hope!”

The varmint looks skeptical.

The duo arrive at their destination, and the beast is offered a plate of chopped fowl. He devours it and gulps from a flagon of sweet water. Our valiant protagonist is exhausted. She sends her messenger to the shire’s Lord of the Beasts. The officer sends word back that he will accept this animal temporarily, but should it not find a permanent residence, he will banish the wee one to the Isle of Lost Souls….

Our heroine coaxes the beast toward his fate, through the Forest of Abject Guilt.

“I would like to keep thee as a companion, friend, but I have two mutts already that I tend. Plus, I’m trying to sell a house and buy a house and I just started a new job and broke up with my boyfriend and my grandma had a stroke yesterday. No can do, buddy.”

The Lord of the Beasts meets the pair on the trail and whisks the animal into his carriage.

“Remember my words, Avid Bruxist…you must find a home for this creature.” A tear slips down our heroine’s cheek.

Then another. And pretty soon she’s bawling like a little bitch.

[Anybody want a dog?]