My owner, as he likes to call himself, is guitar-strumming cowboy man, zany a beet radish, and cool as a steel drum in Mexico. He's the fellow who shows up to a party late with his pants on backward asking everyone for directions to the nearest coffee shop where he seems to have left his wallet.
Well today he told me his revelation. He wasn't actually a cowboy. At heart, at least he wasn't- he could sit there all day and hussle up cattle with with a toothpick like he was a starting short-stop for the New York Yankees, but he never really could get into it. No, his mind is set on other things, things like like finally winning that bear at the carnival for his sweetheart, or sweetheart of 15 years ago the night that he spewed chunks over Mr. Longhorn's ferris wheel and was nearly corn shucked out of town by the Ricket Brothers as they sought to extract vengence for this rightful deed. She didn't take kindly to him prattling on about he couldn't tell the front end of the shotting range gun from a baby duckling's telephone bill. So he never did win that bear- ran out of money, and she got too annoyed with the contents of his stomach on her brand new skirt and his inssesent desire to explain how he knew nothing.