Musings from Billy

Billy
Billy

Hi. M’ name’s Billy. Some call me The Kid. I know what yer thinkin’ — How’d a sheep get himself tacked to a goat’s name? Welp, that’s a long story, and one best suited fer tellin’ at ‘nother time. Thang is, it ain’t always proper to call a feller by his birth name. In my case, I was raised by a pack of goats, so I think my name fits me fine. (I know what yer thinkin’ again — goats don’t run in packs, they run in flocks; but that don’t do justice to a goat’s dignity, making it kin to flocks that ain’t even related, like geese.) ‘Nough said. M’ daddy’s a Billy, and my posse runs in packs, which makes us square even. I’ll butt heads with anyone who sees different.

Fancy Tales and a Greenhorn

Anyhoo, I’m writing fer a specific reason. Folks tell fancy tales these days, but none makes fer as good a butt slappin’ as the one I’m ’bout to tell you. It’s ’bout that feller Doctor Ric. Somethin’s strange ’bout him. He’s not right in the head, if you know what I mean. The other day, I was minding my own business, chewing bear grass on Logan Pass, when I seed this feller climbing toward me. He looked like one of them city slicker types. You know, the ones who carry their cell on a belt clip and think they’re somethin’ cool. He was hollering for help, coz he got himself stuck. I guess he twarnt sure-footed enough to keep himself from fallin’ off the side of the mountain.

Welp, I didn’t take kindly to some greenhorn botherin’ me on my break, but the wife said to help him, so’s I did. From the looks of that Doctor Ric feller, you’d had thought he’d been drinking too much huckleberry squeez’ns, staggerin’ like he did. He was some sight — screamin’ and hollerin’ like a polecat steppin’ on a cactus. Seems curiosity got the best of him, so’d he took to walkin’ till the trail got smaller and smaller, and higher and higher — then he seed how high he got and turned scared. Losin’ his grip and crazy thinkin’s what got him in this fix in the first place. I shook my head, disqusted with the sight, but made toward him straightaway. When he saw me comin’, he grabbed his britches and stared at me like he was sunstroke. I moseyed past him to show him the way, and he followed after me — didn’t hear him speak one word the whole time.

Kindness just Sped Off

We made it best we could down the mountain, and that feller thanked me fer my helpin’. He asked to repay me fer the kindness. It got me to thinkin’. What, with the weather turning cold pretty soon, and vittles running scarce, I thought a small tip would be kindly — you know, some token of appreciation. My wife needed the money; she’s been nagging me for months to buy her some of that newfangled sheep scent (I think it smells like a musty marmot, but don’t tell her I said so). Well, do you think Doctor Ric was ready to offer some token of thanks? Not a chance! I even posed for him through his car window, and that no-good, spiny-butt lowlife turned his back on me and sped off — didn’t even drop a dime.

I recken some folks don’t take to be’n nice to every feller that passes their way. Why, I’ll even admit, I was tempted to let him slip off the slope, fer all I cared, but the wife wouldn’t let me. Still, you woulda thought saving his backside counted fer somethin’, right? I felt like tellin’ him, “Go back to yer rat-invested life in Tenbuckstwo, Doctor Ric,” but I figured he twarnt schooled in English well ‘nough to possess the necessary understandin’, so’s I let ‘er pass. Still, it torqued my shorts, thinkin’ ’bout the injustice of it all. I guess I’ll just head back to my bear grass and ferget ’bout it. Thanks fer takin’ time to listen. The way I figure, somewheres along the way, every ram gets his just due. While yer at it, teach that lowlander some manners.

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