by Slim Randles
“No, Doc,” Windy said, “don’t hurt or nothin’ like that, but you know, with all the plagues goin’ on right now, figgered it’s better to be safe than … “
“Sorry?”
“I ain’t never sorry I come to see ya, Doc. You know that. Fell to sleep t’other night when all them ad shows is on … you know. Like how to cut yer boots with a knife and feel younger by wearin’ a new shirt … that stuff.”
Doc nodded. Windy Wilson was one of his closest pals, as well as being a patient. The adventures of this old cowboy camp cook and mule packer were usually good for a laugh, anyway. But ol’ Windy really seemed upset this morning.
“Windy,” Doc said, kindly. “I’m thinking this is a sorta personal problem? I deal with personal problems all the time, so why not just tell me about it?”
“Thass what’s so strange, Doc. I only catched a part of it when I was a-dozin’ off, ya know? But I told myself … Self, I better go talk to Doc, ‘cuz that jest might be whass been holdin’ me back on startin’ some colts.”
“Starting some colts? What’s keeping you from starting some colts is you’re old enough to know better! So what’s this problem that the teevee said is keeping you out of the saddle?”
Windy looked up shamefaced. “They called it a deviated rectum.”
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