Ricky Dandelion and the 100 Yard Hoof

Ricky Dandelion and his wife, Venice lived not far outside the city limits of Bellingham. Along with their house, barn, and out-buildings, they owned eight acres of fenced pastureland on which they grazed cattle — six cows and a bull.

Ricky, an irascible man who had long since lost his gluteal muscles and couldn’t for the life of him keep his pants up, was now in his 70s. He met Venice not long after his stint in the military. Though many thought that Venice was way out of his league, he won her over with his hard-working ethic and his unique ability to yodel.

Venice was described as classically beautiful, oozing with romance and old-world charm. She also milked the cows.

Though the two had few hobbies, they loved to weed-eat. For an anniversary gift, Ricky had gone to town and purchased two identical Stihl- FS131 professional brush cutters— a his and hers gift. Ricky and Venice proudly had their anniversary photo taken on the front lawn holding their new toys.

At the beginning of the grass season, when it wakes up from its winter hibernation and grows two inches in a day, the field grass and the soil are still wet. On one end of the field there was standing water along the fence line which the cattle had been mucking up all through the winter months.

“Venice, we’ve got to get out and weed-eat that fence line or the cows are going to tear up the bottom wire by eating under it,” the irascible Ricky muttered at the breakfast table.

Venice, in her long flowing cotton shirt-waist dress, pirouetted across the kitchen to set a fresh blueberry pie on the open windowsill. She waved away the bluebirds.

“Is this a date?” she asked. “Let me grab my boots.”

The Dandelion house had a small front yard which put the house just thirty feet from the highway which passed it. Unfortunately, the house had been broken into before, so Ricky’s paranoia caused him to lock all the outside doors, even when they worked around the property.

Venice and Ricky left the house, and he locked the back door. Venice, still in her work dress, wore knee high Muck Boots. Another anniversary present from her husband. Only the best for his woman.

Ricky, with the beltline of his pants hanging low and exposing the backside of his tidy whities, had also slipped on an older pair of knee-high barn boots which were covered in patches and smeared with silicone to cover holes. They walked together to the outbuilding to retrieve their Stihls.

Now about the cattle. Cows are curious animals. If they are familiar with you, they will come right up and stick their noses in your face. In their clumsiness, they might even step on your barn boots, which don’t have steel toes.

Ricky learned early on that to get any work done in the field, he had to keep the cows away. He found that if the cattle got too close while they were weed whacking, he merely had to point the spinning head at the offending bovine and slap it in the legs or on the nose with the twirling string. This stung the animal and kept it away. They were so well trained that they associated the noise from the running weed-eaters with getting string slapped. It was much like a lion tamer and his whip.

The bull, Mr. T,  was an aggressive animal who still had his horns. Ricky had purchased him for breeding the cows but rued the day he had brought him home. Mr. T had been slapped many times by Ricky’s weed-eater and he was always waiting for an opportunity for revenge. After all, Ricky was on his turf. His eight acres.

Ricky and Venice, weed eaters in hand, opened the gate and walked into the pasture. The grass was almost knee high and wet from an earlier rain.

“Well Venice, we will start on this corner. You work clockwise around the fence line, and I’ll work counterclockwise. We’ll work until we run out of fuel, or we meet up at the other end.”

Venice inserted her earbuds and, listening to The Marvelous Hollis Quince and the Yodel Aires, started her Stihl and began cutting under the fence line.

Ricky also began cutting, pausing only when he needed to pull his pants back up. When the curious cows got too close, he would hold the spinning string head up in the air and rev the motor like a lion tamer snaps his whip. This spooked them back.

The morning weed-eating was uneventful, that is until Ricky got to the marshy ground which the cows had mucked up. There was about five inches of standing water and yet, the grass was growing up out of it and tangling in the lowest fence wire. Ricky waded into the water cutting the grass at the waterline, careful not to splash himself with the rooster tail. And then, halfway through the marsh he got his right boot stuck in the mud.

This was not a slightly stuck boot. It had sunk at least four inches into the mud and the suction was not giving it up.

Ricky pulled hard on the boot while at the same time trying to balance himself and his weed-eater. He turned to yell at Venice, but she was facing away from him on the other side of the pasture. Over the noise of her weed-eater motor and her singing along with The Marvelous Hollis Quince and the Yodel Aires, she could not hear him.

It was at this bad angle which Ricky was standing that he lost his balance and sat backwards into the water, the Stihl getting thrown backwards over his head. The motor of the weed-eater disappeared under the water and died.

Standing back up, Ricky pulled his stuck foot until it came loose from the boot. This also dropped his pants down to his knees causing him to again topple backwards into the marsh. Though the morning mist was heavy in the field, the air hung blue around Ricky’s head. His pants were soaked and would not pull up. He kicked off the right pant leg and then pulled his left foot out of its boot and kicked that pant leg off too. Grabbing his soaked pants and the left boot, he tossed them out of the marsh, into the field. He then bent over and tugged on the stuck right boot.

It was from this bent position that Ricky heard the approaching sound of hooves. Standing upright, he turned to face the herd who was staring at him. Quite possibly they had never seen chicken legs on a man before.

Ricky grabbed the weed-eater out of the water. He pulled on the starter cord. Water sprayed from the exhaust port. The spark plug was wet. The Stihl was down for the count. Mr. T stepped to the front of the group and the lion trainer had no whip.

Ricky yelled across the field to Venice whose head was back, and her eyes closed as she belted out, The Lion Sleeps Tonight. She could not hear him.

Mr. T walked over to the pants in the field and bent his head down, hooking the pants with his right horn. He flipped them into the air. He then repeated this but got the pants tangled on his head. Then in frustration he stared at Ricky.

At first, Ricky thought he might be able to beat Mr. T to the gate, but then how fast can an irascible, chicken legged old man run?

Ricky did indeed make it through the gate, but so did Mr. T. and as they approached the back door, we should be reminded that Ricky always locked the house doors with the keys, which were in his pants pocket, which were hooked to the horns of Mr. T.

The two of them ran around the house twice, chicken legged Ricky with the now soiled tidy-whities, and Mr. T. with the pants on his head.

Traffic slowed on the highway that morning, as most people had never seen a streaker being chased by a bull before. Finally, a milkman pulled into the driveway and opened the truck door to let Ricky inside.

Eventually, Venice came to the gate to see why the milkman was honking his horn and flashing his lights.

Epilogue

After a thorough cleaning, Ricky was able to start his weed-eater again so that he and Venice could go on dates.

And Mr. T?

Mr. T is still around the house, although now stays in assorted wrappers in the freezer.

More Ricky stories, “To Dream the Impossible Dream“

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