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Ropers, Milkers, Muggers, and Nuns (Part 2)

A Sister Jim Bob Jesse and Sister Forebearance Tale

By Chuck EtheridgePublished about a year ago 5 min read
2
Ropers, Milkers, Muggers, and Nuns (Part 2)
Photo by Lee Pigott on Unsplash

Can you look a nun in the eye and lie to her face? Well, I can’t.

“Yes. My brothers and I used to do ranch rodeo,” I said, then, seeing the question on both sisters’ faces, I added, “Yes, we did, in fact, do Wild Cow Milking.”

The look on Jim Bob Jesse’s face was something to behold—wonder mixed with greed. “You mean there is such a thing? And you can make money doing it?” It was like I could see the wheels begin to turn beneath her black veil.

“You could help us,” Forbearance said, excited. “You could do it for us.”

“Or maybe you could train some of the girls on your team to do it,” Jim Bob Jesse said.

I slowly stood up, walked around the table so my back was to the rest of the cafeteria and gym and unbuttoned my shirt. I always wear a dress shirt to the school, except when I’m actually on the basketball court.

“What are you doing?” hissed Jim Bob Jesse.

“Que sexy,” Coach, said Cecilia Lopez, my power forward, who clearly was paying more attention to the teachers’ table than she was to her Salisbury Steak.

“Mind your own business, young lady,” I barked, and Cici got quiet real fast.

“Good Lord, Pete, what happened?” Forbearance was looking at it in horror.

“It” is a jagged eighteen-inch scar that starts on my left collar bone and meanders lazily down to where my appendix would be if I had one. It’s ugly, the color of hamburger that’s been left out all night and is the reason I don’t like to take my shirt off when I go to the swimming pool. Most people think I’m modest.

“I got it the last time my brothers and I milked a wild cow,” I said.

Forbearance looked at the scar for a good long time, motioned for me to button up, and said, “You’ll just have to be more careful next time, Pete.”

“Next time?” I said, rolling my eyes, which, as I already told you, is a bad thing to do at a nun. “There ain’t gonna be a next time, sister.”

It was like they didn’t hear me.

“Tell me more about this Cow Milking thing,” Jim Bob Jesse said.

“I don’t know much about it,” Forbearance said. “Just that they give prize money for milking a cow.”

“And you’re sure it’ll be enough to fix the bathroom?”

By Hernan Gonzalez on Unsplash

“A thousand bucks is the usual purse, from what I hear. And there’s this big round up next week out in Dumas, and another one in Muleshoe week after next.”

“We gotta win that money, sister,” Jim Bob Jesse, and I knew their fate, and mine, was sealed. “Maybe getting’ the girl’s basketball team to try . . .”

“Over my dead body,” I said, sitting back down hard in my chair with a thump so loud the entire cafeteria looked up at us. Then all the kids looked down at their food the way students suddenly break eye contact when they can tell a teacher’s real mad.

“Well, who then?” Forbearance said.

“Didn’t you hear me?” I said. “Didn’t you see what happened to me? You’re not risking my girls at that. Forget injury. Forget basketball. They could get killed.” Then, realization dawned. “Besides, you gotta be eighteen to compete.” Game over, argument over, or so I thought.

“Then we’ll do it,” Jim Bob Jesse said.

“That’s right. You and me,” Forbearance said, getting excited again.

You need four,” I said. “Two ropers, a milker, and a mugger.”

“A mugger?” Forbearance said. “What do they do? Mug the cow?”

“That’s exactly what they do, Sister,” I said. “The ropers try and lasso the cow, and then they get off their horses and they and the mugger tries to hold the cow still while the milker gets a few drops of milk. Then the milker has to run the mild to the finish line and show the bottle.”

“So it’s a race,” said Jim Bob Jesse seriously.

“And these aren’t dairy cows, who are real docile and used to being milked. These are free range cattle, pretty much wild, who’ve never been milked. They’ve got big horns and sharp hooves,” I said, trying to press my point.

“You were the mugger, weren’t you,” Forbearance said, snapping her fingers. “That’s how you got hurt. Right?”

“Yes,” I said, angry. Then I made myself calm down and said, “Now do you see why the girls shouldn’t do it even if they were old enough?”

“You’re right,” Jim Bob Jesse said. “We shouldn’t let the students try anything like that.”

For about a whisker’s width of a second, I thought I’d won my first argument with the nuns. I’d been trying to for a decade and a half.

We should,” Forbearance said, looking determined.

“It’s decided then,” Jim Bob Jesse said. “We can get Father Darryl Lee to be one of the ropers. He sure can sit a horse.”

“And I oughta be the milker,” Forbearance said. “I’m real good at milkin’.”

“DIDN’T YOU PEOPLE HEAR ME?” I said, trying to strike a balance between not shouting at my fellow teachers in the school cafeteria and trying to impress on them that this was the stupidest idea they’d ever had, even worse than the time they’d actually tried cow tipping.

“Don’t worry, Pete,” Jim Bob Jesse said, suddenly kind. “I understand you’re afraid. We’d never ask you to do this with us. What with what you went through and all.”

“You’re not even invited,” Forbearance added. “But we gotta get a fourth. How about Emmitt Coker? He teaches Ag and knows a lot about horses.”

“You know,” Jim Bob Jesse said, “You ought to be on the horse, too. I saw how you swung that lasso the time we had to chase that rogue emu when it got out.”

By Mike Cox on Unsplash

“Think so?” Forbearance looked pleased at the compliment. Then, she smiled shyly. “Okay, I’ll do it. And besides, you probably oughta be the milker ‘cause, well, let’s face it—I don’t run very good.” She patted her ample belly to underline the point.

Humor
2

About the Creator

Chuck Etheridge

Novelist, Teacher, Transplanted West Texan, Reluctant Poet

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Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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