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 “No, Doc,” Windy said, “don’t hurt or nothin’ like
that, but you know, with all the plagues goin’ on right now,
figgered it’s better to be safe than … “
“Sorry?”
“I ain’t never sorry I come to see ya, Doc. You know that. Fell to
sleep t’other night when all them ad shows is on … you know. Like
how to cut yer boots with a knife and feel younger by wearin’ a new
shirt … that stuff.”
Doc nodded. Windy Wilson was one of his closest pals, as well as
being a patient. The adventures of this old cowboy camp cook and
mule packer were usually good for a laugh, anyway. But ol’ Windy
really seemed upset this morning.
“Windy,” Doc said, kindly. “I’m thinking this is a sorta personal
problem? I deal with personal problems all the time, so why not just
tell me about it?” [to top of second
column] |
“Thass what’s so strange, Doc. I
only catched a part of it when I was a-dozin’ off, ya know? But I
told myself … Self, I better go talk to Doc, ‘cuz that jest might be
whass been holdin’ me back on startin’ some colts.”
“Starting some colts? What’s keeping you from starting some colts is
you’re old enough to know better! So what’s this problem that the
teevee said is keeping you out of the saddle?”
Windy looked up shamefaced. “They called it a deviated rectum.”
[Text from file received from
Slim Randles]
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