Like any career I’d imagine, cattle rustling has its share of ups and downs, but like any foolish optimist entering an exciting new position in life, I concentrated solely on the bright side of things. Oh, I thought it’d be all fun and excitement, prostitutes in fanciful gowns and free cows. Little did I know, being a cattle rustler in the 21st century is tough work.
First, as a resident of Dallas, Texas, there’s not much cattle to be rustled. Any good beef will require a drive of a half hour or more, and my standard GMC pick-up can hold one or maybe two cows at a time--four to six calves, depending on their age. Seven if I let one ride in the passenger seat next to me. As you might imagine, this makes for some long days in “the biz” (what we cattle rustlers call the business of cattle rustling).
Next are those pesky lynch mobs. Now, I’ve never actually seen a lynch mob in action, and I don’t intend to; but they are as much a part of the business as the smell of manure, large hats and chaps. Every cattle rustler, upon embarking on this career path, must acknowledge the fact that if you’re caught, you’ll be pursued and strung up by the torch-wielding townspeople, who will then have a hoe-down around your cooling corpse. But, as the great French cattle rustler Marcel LeChance would say, C’est la vie, as a cattle rustler.
Another problem is the lack of space to keep the cows I’ve rustled. My apartment is around 1,000 square feet, which would be fine for an accountant or a numismatist, but not so much someone in the business of transporting large bovines to and fro. I wish I would have given more thought to this before becoming a cattle rustler. I doubt it would’ve changed my mind, but the smell of manure and constant lowing is becoming something of a nuisance for my roommate. Imagine my embarrassment last week when, after rustling a few heifers, I returned home to find no room for them. Finally, I had to cut my losses and release them in the parking lot. (Which reminds me, if anyone sees a cow running amok in North Dallas, it’s mine. Give it back.)
To this point, you may be thinking that cattle rustling is miserable, thankless work. I can tell you now, though, that a life of absconding with cows that aren’t yours certainly has its perks.
For starters--and I’ll write this in italics so you know I’m not kidding--All the milk you can drink. Ditto for beef, but my roommate has enacted a “no-slaughtering-cows-in-the-apartment” rule, obliging me to go the “traditional route,” and leave the slaughtering to the fellows in the slaughterhouses.
It is true that the ladies love cattle rustlers, but then you go back to your place and they're all "It smells in here;" "I just stepped in cow shit;" "Hey, what's this in my drink?"--which is a contradiction when you think about it.
Sometimes I wonder if I wasn’t better off at my old job, as the CFO of a Fortune 500 company. Sure, I had a nice salary, an apartment that wasn't filled with livestock and feces, and a beautiful fiancee--but you can't dwell on the past; I've made my bed, and I have to lie in it, even if it is filled with manure. So do I second-guess my decision? Sure.
But then I just drink some of that sweet, sweet milk...Free and straight from the udder, as God intended.
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