Rambo

RAMBO.

Or

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, running into his eyes, dripping of his black and white coat, matting his fur into sodden strands that looked like a Rastafarian hair do. 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 as pissed off with the rain and cold as Rambo was, just would not do anything he tried to lead them into.

A limited vocabulary of understanding, after a fashion, can be established between a sheep dog and his charges. Currently, he was asking them in as nice as possible a manner, to please go through the gate and into the next field. The sheep, or rather one or two of them who always caused trouble, were saying in less than a nice way, fuck off! Leave us alone!

Nothing for it he decided. He rushed in and Rambo bit the worst offender on its foreleg. The Ewe jumped, with all four feet in the air, landing 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, intent on battering his ribs in with a well aimed forehead. At the last possible moment, Rambo side stepped her and watched as the velocity of her rush took her headlong into the very solid looking gatepost.

Rambo stood over the stricken ewe, wondering what to do about it and thinking, serves her right, the miserable bitch. Gary, Rambo’s 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 were 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 as useful as a chocolate ashtray on a motorbike.

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 (God only knows what that actually means,) and whistling sets of orders that would have directed the sheep into the nearest ravine had Rambo taken any notice of the botched commands. Gary’s thoughts were firmly ensconced in Betty and nowhere near the Yorkshire Dales.

Betty lives on a neighbouring farm, is nineteen, smitten with Ronan Keating, most of the current boy-bands, make up, her slippers 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. The drugs were the only thing to really stick. But, it was the filling out 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 like the alien poking out of an astronaut’s belly. Betty had grown a nice set of thirty sixes in a ‘D’ cup size, coupled with a thirty-four inch hip and a twenty two inch waist. Gary, or more importantly, Todger, his pet name for his pride and constant joy, stood no chance, love or lust or both, hit the neural receptors with a lump hammer. Gary could think of nothing else now, especially as he had actually almost got her horizontal in her dad’s barn. Testosterone ruled all of Gary’s basic functions and many of the higher ones too.

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 result for the day. Rambo had had enough of watching his master go down the tubes every morning.

Somehow, with no thanks to Gary, they got through the day. Apart from the one mishap with the ewe that was still concussed and kept calling Rambo love or dear, with a wistful look in her eye, the day went accident free.

Dinner that evening was a desultory affair.