A day in the life of a sheepdog
Oh fuck this! Thought Rambo. Rain was hitting him like miniature scythes, bouncing off of his head and back and running into his eyes. A cold wind kept blasting him from any direction it felt like and it was as much as he could do to keep from shivering to bits.
The weather wasn't the worst of his problems though. The flock of belligerent bastard sheep that were also fucked off with the rain and cold, just would not do anything he tried to lead them into. A limited vocabulary of understanding after a while can be established between a sheep dog and his charges. Currently, he was asking them in as nice as possible manner, to please go through the gate and into the next field. The sheep, or rather one or two of them who always caused the trouble, were saying in less than a nice way, fuck off and leave us alone.
Nothing for it, Rambo bit the worst offender on its foreleg. The Ewe jumped with all four feet in the air and landed on top of Rambo, flattening him. The rest of the flock meekly walked into the next field, laughing their wool off. The bitten ewe had other ideas it seemed, because without further ado, she righted herself and ran at Rambo with her head down. At the last possible moment, Rambo side stepped her and watched as the velocity of her rush took her headlong into the gatepost.
Rambo stood over the stricken Ewe, wondering what to do about it when Gary, his master and sometime shepherd, walked over to the scene. Dreamily, Gary looked down on the sheep and the guilty looking Rambo, then, as if nothing was there to be seen, he continued to walk into the next field, oblivious of what his eyes were frantically trying to tell his brain. It was very quickly obvious to Rambo, that Gary would be no use at all.
It had been the case for two weeks now. Gary's thought processes were some place else. All through the sheep dipping, Gary had been half-heartedly yelling cum-bye-ere (and only God knows what that actually means) and whistling sets of orders that would have directed the sheep into the nearest ravine if Rambo took any notice of the commands. Gary's thoughts were firmly ensconced in Betty.
Betty lives on a neighbouring farm, is nineteen and smitten with Ronan Keating and Gary, in that order. Gary and Betty had known each other since they were in nappies, but both had been away at college. Their minds had been filled with alternative farming, organic crop rotation and hallucinatory drugs. But it was the filling of bodies that had been the key factor, namely, Gary now sported a nicely grown eight incher, which proudly made itself known to the world every morning. Betty had grown a nice set of thirty sixes in a d cup coupled with a thirty-four inch hip. Gary, or more importantly, Todger, his pet name for his pride and constant joy, stood no chance and love hit the neural receptors with a hammer. Gary could think of nothing else now, especially as he had actually almost got her horizontal in her dad's barn.
Rambo didn't like Betty too much. Sure she was okay as far as humans went, but the effect she had had on Gary upset his whole equilibrium. The silly bugger couldn't tie his shoe laces without a thought or memory of Betty come rushing in and his little brain cells would go into overdrive and blood start to rush to his loins. Coherent thought left through his ear and an empty, lust filled body would be the prize for the day. Rambo had had enough of watching his master go down the tubes every morning.
Somehow, they got through the day. Apart from the one mishap with the ewe that was still concussed and kept calling Rambo luv or dear with a wistful look in her eye, the day went accident free. No thanks to Gary!
Dinner was a desultory affair; Gary sat mooning at the food on his plate. Sometimes he actually picked up a fork, but then he would push the potatoes around and shift a few of his sprouts before dropping the fork forlornly back onto the stained table cloth. Rambo, ever the optimist, thought he might have a chance of nabbing the lust-locked youths dinner, but his Mum soon scotched that when she hit Gary around the ear and scolded him into eating the congealed mess.
Some time later, Gary got ready to go and see Betty. It amazed Rambo that this normally scruffy fucker suddenly started to wash. More amazingly, he scrubbed the area behind his ears, a place that only got wet when it rained. Toe nails, fingernails and even nasal hair all got trimmed. Clean clothes came out of the closet, smelling of mothballs and being half a size too small, but never-the-less, wrapped around Gary's spare frame. Copious amounts of some foul smelling alcohol based liquid was tipped from a bottle and splashed liberally under arms, around his neck and massaged into Gary's torso. Rambo couldn't read the bottle, one because the writing was upside down, and two, dogs don't read too well, but an educated guess lead Rambo to the entirely correct assumption that Old Spice was the flavour of the month.
At last, Gary, having inspected himself from every conceivable angle, was ready. He took the bit of string that served as a dog lead and with a cheery wave, set off for Betty's farm.
Betty's dad was a better farmer than Gary's. The obvious wealth was plain to see in the quality of the farming equipment that littered an otherwise, very tidy yard. The chickens that ranged free had a certain haughtiness to them. They fetched a better price than Gary's old mans, probably because the silly sods strutted their stuff with their chests all puffed out, therefore developing better breast muscle tone and therefore, being plumper. Stands to reason dunnit?
Betty answered the door, all breathless and eau d cologne ified. Rambo wasn't sure whether to throw up or sit and grin at her. He chose the latter and got a pat on the head from her as a reward.
Give me a sec. She asked Gary, all husky and sexily. She had been practicing the Marilyn Monroe sound and pout in front of the bathroom mirror for the last hour. The emphasis was on the word give, and sounded like an invitation to bed. The desired effect took Gary to a new height of anticipation. With any luck, tonight would be the night they actually had sex, without Gary flooding his pants with sticky goo. He felt sure the double scotch he had downed would help in this department. Privately, Rambo had his doubts, knowing his master as he did. He also thought knocking one off the wrist wasn't such a good idea either, but who could tell with these silly sacks of shit.
Well, the evening went reasonably well. Rambo had only had to nip her infuriating pet poodle once to stop it sniffing his bollocks. The poodle, mollified, had scooted back to the farm with her pom-pom med tail stuck up her arse. Inevitably, Gary and Betty ended up in the barn.
All evening, the tension had been building. Rambo was aware, oh so, painfully aware, that these two were heading towards a sexual encounter. He could pick up the heightened temperature of their bodies. The pheromones the two were giving off buzzed around his nasal cavity like angry wasps in a jam jar. It was the hand holding and occasional clinches that really gave the game away though. Each clinch had her cardigan raise a little higher and one more button undone on her blouse. Rambo couldn't see the problem, if they wanted to fuck each other's brains out, why all the prelude? If it had been him and some horny bitch, he would have shafted her there and then. None of this screwing around, just how do you do and wham, straight up the kisser until he was stuck good and fast. Fuck all this messing around.
.... There is more of this story ...