Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 6

God bless my Dad. He tried so hard to ensure that I could grow up and work with cows and horses. I reckon God had other plans.

As mentioned before, Dad had taken up the hobby of Team Roping. This is a sport that is usually showcased in rodeos. It involves two cowboys, two horses and one steer. (A steer is a male bull that has been castrated...usually at the hands of my dad. Who would then eat the stolen testicles. And would try to fake them off on me by disguising the name to make it sound more like chicken fried steak. Seriously, if you heard "bull fries", would you think they were battered pieces of steak, or battered testicles?) The header or cowboy who ropes the head would nod his head, and let the person controlling the chute that the steer is located in, to release the steer, at which point the team ropers would rope said steer. To keep this going, you had to have a continual stream of steer to come to the chute.

Dad had me run the steer one time. He told me to get the hot shot (which is a device to give a shock to the steer...much like a tazer...but no where near the knock out power) and get the steer to move up to the chute.

I took the hot shot, and climbed into the small area that leads the steer to the chute. I pop the last one on the butt to get it going. As if he went, then he would push the ones in front of him forward. Save for one little hiccup. This steer had no intentions in moving.

"Dad, this steer won't budge"

"Hit him again."

I zapped the steer again.

"Dad, I really don't think he wants to go."

"Hit him again."

I zapped the steer again.

"This just isn't working. Should I go to the next one, or what?"

"Hit him again, and hold it on his ass until he moves.

I placed the end of the hot shot right on the cow's ass per my dad's instructions. Pressed the button, and held it. I'm not entirely for sure for how long, but the equation probably looks like this.
Amount of time + electric shock = pissed off cow.

I still remember the cow's movement, all in slow motion. The cow stood on his front legs, pulled his back legs tight against his stomach. Then kicked the ever loving shit out of my stomach.

I can't remember how far back it knocked me, but what I do remember is laying on the ground, trying to breathe for what seemed like an hour.

My Dad rode over on his horse, and said "What happened? Are you OK."
*GASP* "cow...kicked...me." *GASP* "can't...breathe"
Dad said "Oh, you'll be fine, now get up and walk it off."

How you walk off getting kicked by a cow is beyond me.

In my next story we'll explore my fear of heights, and roller coasters.

2 comments:

  1. I get a kick out of these every time you post them. They never get old. Now go walk it off!

    P.S. I gave you an award on my blog but you don't have to do the answers to the questions if you don't want to. ;)

    ReplyDelete
  2. Kelly sent me to your page. I am cracking up at these stories! Reminds me so much of my parents, they were tough on us girls and I always say thank God they didn't get a boy because the poor guy wouldn't stand a chance!

    ReplyDelete