OUTHOUSING by Hilma (Volcano) Volk Fred had gone to the outhouse. He'd been there for quite some time. Now and then I heard a moan and groan, And I knew that the moment was prime. In these mountains of Montana There are black and grizzly bear, Coyotes, pumas, and wolverines; Plus moose in rut can give a scare. It was already dark, I dressed in black. I took a stick and began to dig, Making rootin' noises outside the door While snortin' like a pig. Then like a creature with sharp claws, I scratched on the outhouse wood. Not a sound was heard within. I knew I was gettin' him good. Then I shook that little building With all the strength that I could muster. Fred hollered, "Hey, get out of here." I thought, 'This will fix you, Buster!' For all the pranks Fred's played on me, I was evenin' up the score. I started banging on the walls. My goodness, how he swore. Then scratching most ferociously, I let loose my fiercest growl. I heard splats plopping in the depths, Toilet paper rolling on the dowel. 'Scared the shit out of him', I thought As I kind of let out a snicker. I knew I'd given myself away. He yelled, "Gal, if that ain't the kicker!" He stormed from that one holer. Oh, I feared his consternation. "Gal, I'd be madder than heck, But you cured my constipation."
--- From the book, "Manure Happens"
JACKALOPE by Hilma (Volcano) Volk "Are there jackalope around here?" The dude from Chicago asked. "Well up here there's too much elevation; They're down on sagebrush flats." "'course the females don't have antlers. Males shed theirs in early spring. They'll bed down during the day And come out in the late evening. "They're masters of camouflage, When scared they'll lay out flat. Them antlers blend in like a bush, An' they're silent as a cat. "They're pretty cunning creatures, too, Like if a coyote's giving chase A different one will whistle An' throw him off his pace. "They say they're mostly loners But I've seen them in a pack An' make a circle, antlers out, To fend off a dog attack." The Chicago man looked quite confused. He said, "You're a pretty good liar. 'cause we both know they're a myth Dreamed up 'round some campfire." "Not so," I said, "they're real enough. Every word I said was true. Why Friday night at the Longhorn They'll serve up Jack'lope stew. "And Max Green , the taxidermist, Has a whole bunch he has trapped. An' there's photos a the gallery That you can get gift wrapped." He said, "I want to see one alive." "You'll need binocs and a good spot light. Best time and place to see 'em Is Rattler Flats at night." He asked if I'd be his guide. I drawled, "For a hundred buck I'll guarantee you'll see least one - If not, I'm out of luck." Next night our light reflected eyes. I said, "Look, there's a doe." He griped, "Bullshit, that's a rabbit!" "Nope", I smiled, "there's a difference, ya know. "Like see that faint stripe on the back Or that light spot on the chest. Them are jackalope for sure. But a buck will be our quest. "Them males are awful wary 'cause they're hunted all the time. Ain't no season on them, An' right now them horns is prime. "Look there!" I shined the scope, "That there rack's a pretty sight." "I don't see a thing," he said. "Scan that bush that's on the right." "I see it, yes I see it! But wait, it doesn't budge." "You wouldn't either if you was hunted, You big fat tub of fudge." We went on and spied three more. "Them ain't fiction," I rebuffed. Still them jack'lope didn't move. He declared, "I think they,re stuffed." He sneered, "Let's go out there. If they're real, they swill scoot." Said I, "No one goes out on Rattler Flats Lest they're wearing snake proof boot." He stayed in the truck a grumblin' 'Til I shone another critter Whose head was slowly turning 'An his right ear gave a twitter. The man left town that next day. I handed Max Green fifty. In my pocket's a big bonus tip. Yep, mechanical things are nifty. ---
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WITH HONEY THAN VINEGAR BUT THEY PREFER A RIPE ROAD KILL |
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SIGNS OF SPRING by Hilma (Volcano) Volk The buttercups are pushing up Through the patches of melting snow. The willows are tinged in yellow. Streams are swollen with the flow. Least three calves were born this morn. Dozens more about to pop. The cows got through the winter well. It'll be a good calf crop. The ducks are dabblin' in the pond. The swallows are back again. I'm walkin' to the ranch house In the cold and pourin' rain. For the surest sign of spring of all Is not the leaves in bud. But two miles back, its my 4x4 Buried up to it's axles in mud. ---
BULL MOOSE by Hilma (Volcano) Volk The second day out, three miles to go, Deliverin' a week's supply To some campers that'd hired my boss, An outfitter out of Big Sky - My geldin' froze, his neck got stiff. Ears perked, he snorted a warning. My daydreams shook, I followed his gaze Toward the moose in the trail that morning. The string of pack mules saw it too - Started fidgetin' and stompin' At this huge bull moose (fully decked) That on a bush was calmly chompin'. On the right side it dropped off deep. Left, a steep slope thick with trees. And a big moose in the middle That wasn't about to leave. Now most moose depart when they see you, But sometimes they'll attack. Their brains 'bout the size of a walnut - Smaller the brain the bigger the rack. He totally ignored us, Though I whistled and I'd yell So he wouldn't think Butch was another moose (I've heard moose don't see too well). Then his body heaved and quivered, And he bellowed a monstrous cough. Butch reared up, I dropped the rope, And my lead mule took off. Six mules, tied head to tail, Raced like stung with electric shock. Butch spun around, my balance off, I landed square upon a rock. Butch turned back to me and blinked, Amazed to see me lying there. "Whoa!.....Good Boy...Easy...Whoa!" A thunderous cough, Butch was nowhere. The moose was just a munchin' twigs As I hobbled off to fetch them On bruised hip and brand new boots, Hoping they'd stop so I could catch 'em. I walked far, the blisters grew. My hunger burned, the sun went down. Turned so cold I hadda keep on, While prayin' for the sun to come aroun'. At dawn I found the cursed beasts At the gate to the trail head. I crawled onto the pickup seat And fell asleep exhausted. I awoke with hands around my throat, My boss screaming in my face And saying things I can't repeat, An' that he'd put me in my place. He yelled, "You're fired!" But I was too tired To explain, "Boss, it was like this: We'd have been fine, been right on time, 'Cept for a bull moose with bronchitis."
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Things Could Be Worse. So I Cheered Up And Sure Enough Things Got Worse. |
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