A week in the hospital is more than likely called for

It was a gray and stormy morning and I am not kidding one bit! I sure do enjoy rain and pray for it many times a year but this morning it was not my favorite thing. My slicker was cold and stiff, the rubber boots still damp from last night's chores and my stomach was turning over and over. I was not a happy feller looking at a morning of chasing down bulls.

The neighbor who moved in from the east called me at five to let me know a couple of bulls were in a fist fight in his yard. I asked what they looked like, and he said they looked big and mean. The color was not white, red or yellow, so black could mean they were ours. I can't say what brought on the tussle as the boys have been penned together and seemed to get along pretty good.

My ailments were the same thing as most old fellers feel when they crawl out of the nest at daylight. My joints needed greasing, my bones were gritting against the tendons holding them together and, to make it all worse, my stomach ache was probably a gift from a grand picked up at school. My close relative gave me a big dose of the pink stuff and wished me luck. I did not think the coffee smelled good, and one more minute of it was sure gonna make me toss my cookies. So the day started.

I opened the door of the truck and Dog immediately hopped in, spreading muddy water, grass and leaves all over the seat. I didn't even wipe it off, thinking it just did not matter! What was one more bit of unnecessary mess on this lovely day? The truck did start, surprised me, and the rain came down harder.

I found the bulls in the road snorting at each other and threatening to kill at the next charge but worn down and ready to head back down the drive to the barn. Dog put them on the move and I followed, thankful I did not even have to get out. The surly beasts stood pretty still while I opened the gate to the lot and Dog put them in. I did not like being in the beef producing business as I started to go on to the feed room and take care of the morning barn chores. As luck or the virus would have it, my plans changed.

I did not make the feed room before I knew my day was over and done. I made it to the house and cleaned up, took a big swig of the pink stuff and went directly to bed. The room was spinning, my head ached and I wondered if my will was up to date. Surely a feller could die and probably would if he was this sick.

It is my opinion, and everyone has one, a week in the hospital is more than likely called for when the boss is so badly stricken. I could be next to my demise and no one would even offer to get me fresh water or rub my back around here. The aromas from the kitchen were like lethal daggers slipping into my nostrils to churn the stomach. Do you think anyone, and by that I mean my close relative, cared enough to eliminate sauteing onions and garlic? Cold sandwiches would not have stunk up the house!

Don't come by to see me. Germs are flying around here like crows at the pecan tree. Just don't let them sell my saddle when I am planted!

Bill is the pen name used by the Gravette-area author of this weekly column. Opinions expressed are those of the author.