New Yellow Boots © Tom O'Brien
Published in North Bay Nugget, August 26, 2005.
Kathryn and I came to a quick decision last Tuesday. We needed a goatherd reduction and 10 ten had to go to the Ontario Stockyards in Cookstown. We had just spent an hour rounding them up and still they laughed at us while they jumped our electric fences. Even the little ones, born during the last month, snickered as they raced about and nibbled in our brand new rock garden with lots of Hens and Chickens. (Thems are plants, not birds.)
Before loading them into our pick up I put on a brand new pair of yellow boots my brother gave me during a recent visit. These were not your regular piece of fluff boots but real he-man types meant for long years of service. I was certain they were the super expensive ones advertised on TV with a grizzly bear. Often I dug my index finger between the many big chunks of 'real' rubber on the soles. These will never wear out I concluded. Quite often I felt the 'real' cow hide and smelled the heavy insulation. Ah what great luck I pondered, I now possess the best!
Aside from Kathryn's occasional pleading for lower speed, the trip down Highway 11 was uneventful. I honked at a moose that hogged most of the shoulder and some blacktop. "That's right," she muttered as it galloped into the bush, " stay off this road when he's driving."
In Cookstown I dropped Kathryn off at a shopping plaza and continued to the Stockyards. There I sped to the rear of the plant and passed three truckers who were patiently waiting their turn to offload cows. All 3 men were giant sized and wore lots of unhappiness around their eyes. One had a snake tattoo on his scalp. I then realized my parking lot manners needed improvement.
They were standing close to where I stopped. As I got out to get a better idea of where I was going they each began to murmur. Smiles suddenly replaced scorn. Then they laughed. Then big time howls followed uncontrollable laughter fits. I looked at them and asked what was so funny. One pointed to my boots.
I lifted my right foot. The boot was without the sole. Little bits of cow dung mingled with my toes. I saw horse manure too. I inspected my left boot. Much the same. I scratched my head. Hmmm, guess I'll have to start wearing socks. Slowly I looked back towards the open door of our truck. Lots of yellow rubber chunks lay near the brake and gas pedals. Two big slabs of size 12 cardboard littered the ground near the rear tire. Hmmm, I guess my brother stiffed me with bad goods.
"I guess that'll teach ya not to buy cheap boots," said one.
I scratched my neck and thought deeply ... maybe my eye for quality is exaggerated.
"Cheer up, there's no geese here," chuckled him with reptile on his head.
"Come again," chirped the third, "who else gives us big laughs like you!"
-30-
Kathryn and I came to a quick decision last Tuesday. We needed a goatherd reduction and 10 ten had to go to the Ontario Stockyards in Cookstown. We had just spent an hour rounding them up and still they laughed at us while they jumped our electric fences. Even the little ones, born during the last month, snickered as they raced about and nibbled in our brand new rock garden with lots of Hens and Chickens. (Thems are plants, not birds.)
Before loading them into our pick up I put on a brand new pair of yellow boots my brother gave me during a recent visit. These were not your regular piece of fluff boots but real he-man types meant for long years of service. I was certain they were the super expensive ones advertised on TV with a grizzly bear. Often I dug my index finger between the many big chunks of 'real' rubber on the soles. These will never wear out I concluded. Quite often I felt the 'real' cow hide and smelled the heavy insulation. Ah what great luck I pondered, I now possess the best!
Aside from Kathryn's occasional pleading for lower speed, the trip down Highway 11 was uneventful. I honked at a moose that hogged most of the shoulder and some blacktop. "That's right," she muttered as it galloped into the bush, " stay off this road when he's driving."
In Cookstown I dropped Kathryn off at a shopping plaza and continued to the Stockyards. There I sped to the rear of the plant and passed three truckers who were patiently waiting their turn to offload cows. All 3 men were giant sized and wore lots of unhappiness around their eyes. One had a snake tattoo on his scalp. I then realized my parking lot manners needed improvement.
They were standing close to where I stopped. As I got out to get a better idea of where I was going they each began to murmur. Smiles suddenly replaced scorn. Then they laughed. Then big time howls followed uncontrollable laughter fits. I looked at them and asked what was so funny. One pointed to my boots.
I lifted my right foot. The boot was without the sole. Little bits of cow dung mingled with my toes. I saw horse manure too. I inspected my left boot. Much the same. I scratched my head. Hmmm, guess I'll have to start wearing socks. Slowly I looked back towards the open door of our truck. Lots of yellow rubber chunks lay near the brake and gas pedals. Two big slabs of size 12 cardboard littered the ground near the rear tire. Hmmm, I guess my brother stiffed me with bad goods.
"I guess that'll teach ya not to buy cheap boots," said one.
I scratched my neck and thought deeply ... maybe my eye for quality is exaggerated.
"Cheer up, there's no geese here," chuckled him with reptile on his head.
"Come again," chirped the third, "who else gives us big laughs like you!"
-30-
posted by Tom O'Brien at 5:38 PM
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