Parrothead Ramblings

When I was a kid, my brother and I used to love spending our summers living and working working with my grandparents. Grandpa worked cattle for a living on a remote ranch in southeastern New Mexico, where I grew up. Now, don't get the idea that he was a cattle baron. This was somebody else's ranch and cows. It was hard work, but with a lot of "down time." There's not a lot going on sometimes, waiting for a bunch of cows to eat enough to become cheeseburgers. That was when us kids swam, fished, hunted, explored, and just generally played grab-ass with one another. We shared the ranch with a large number of feral cats that prowled the place, their goal in life to snag a mouse or rat around the barn. Just beyond the mesquites that surrounded the house and pens was a large number of coyotes, whose goal in life was to snag a stray cat that wandered too far from the barn, looking for a mouse. It was a harmonious balance of power, preventing us from being up to our asses in either rats or cats. Being the ornery little hell-demons we were, we made life tough for the cats, chasing, capturing, and generally tormenting them. Of particular note were the regular swimming contests we had - chunking them into a cattle tank to see which one could get back to the edge first, and wagering on the outcome - "I bet a million-billion-zillion dollars on the yellow one!" Cats make great personal weapons, too. Sneak up behind your brother, then launch the cat onto his back from a distance of about five feet. Man, can they dig in. And they really do freak out when you tie cans to their tails, or shoot them in the ass with a BB gun loaded with chicken feed. I got my own share of the latter torture, as well.

Mom came one week to pick up my brother, Gene, and I to take us back to town for a while. She parked her 1965 Olds Delta 88 out under the huge elm tree in the yard, windows open wide to take in all the fresh air. Then she left the windows down all the way home, taking the opportunity to counsel us regarding our personal hygiene habits. We tended to swim in cattle troughs and avoid baths, you see. Anyway, we really got the litany: "You two stink! You boys disgust me! Don't you know what a bar of soap is? I can't believe it! You are such an embarrassment. You ought to both be ashamed of yourself!" Seven miles to the highway. Twenty-five miles from there to town. Gene and I, of course, each blamed the other: "Why didn't you take a bath, you dick?" met with "Shut up, it's not me, it's you, you little shit stain." This discourse only made Mom want to wash both our bodies and our mouths with soap.When we got home, Gene got first shot at the bathtub and the hot water. Mom wouldn't even let me in the house, relegating me to the front porch until my turn at the tub.

The next morning, I saw mom cleaning up something from the back seat of her car. Cat shit. One of the little bastards had snuck in through the open window out at the ranch and left a miniature land mine on the floorboard. And Gene and I took the blame for it all the way home. What a couple of patsies. Of course, Mom played the "You both stunk, anyway" card, so we deserved the beratement we got.

And the cats had their revenge.

P.S. For more info on the artwork above, click here.
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