Buckeroo

word count: 298

    It was the bottom of the ninth; my Padres were down a run with two outs and runners at the corners. It was a full count.  I was glued to the game, momentarily forgetting the barbecue, the warm afternoon sun and the freshly cut grass.  I could feel the tension at the ballpark; hear the noiseless murmurs of the crowd.  I saw the pitcher peering intently at the catcher and shaking off the sign, then a final glance at first to check the runner and into his wind-up, and the delivery …

    Suddenly the dog came sliding around the corner of the house a wild, terrified look in her eyes, bubbly ropes of saliva flying from her jowls, panting and snorting like a rhino on the run.  She looked like one hot dog.  She was pursued by a short cowboy, hat, vest, boots, matching pearl handled six-shooters, the whole get-up; the gift of some misbegotten aunt.  The four year-old buckaroo had a firm grasp on a rope around the dogs neck.  The diminutive wrangler was somewhat running and being drug behind the fleeing animal, “Whoa Kate, WHOA KATE! DADDY HELP!!”  There was a rising note of panic in the cow puncher’s voice, “She WON’T stop!!”

    The pitch was on it’s way to the plate, “Let go, Jeff.”

    “I can’t, a good cowboy never lets go!”  He shrieked as the dog sought refuge under the picnic table.

    As beast and child upended the table the batter was swinging.  Paper plates, mustard, potato salad, buns, ketchup, my beer, potato chips, and the radio were sent flying.  The radio stopped, I didn’t hear the play, I don’t know what happened.

    The cowboy was on the ground crying.  I picked him and dusted him off.  “It’s okay buckaroo, sometimes the doggie wins.”   

word count: 298