My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

I reckon it’s time I took the bridle off and told you folks a little story. You can shoot me for a horse thief if this ain’t the straight and narrow, but it’s gonna take some believin’, I understand. Quite a few liars are from around these parts, but if you get a few bad coconuts you don’t chop down the tree. So hear me out and ask yourself if it don’t make no sense. I think you’ll find it does.

It’s the story of about the best cowboy ever came up the trail from Texas. His name was Dallas, and he was from the Fort Worth area, but they say he was borned in all actuality among the eskeemoes up North.

What made him such a darn good cowboy was his quick thinking and able-to-make-do-ness. Jest fer example, one afternoon ol’ Dallas was riding across Indian land with a string of rabbit he’d shot when a couple of braves crossed his path. They saw that string of rabbit and a young cowboy on their huntin’ land and that’s all it took to convince them to draw their scalpin’ knives out of their buckskins.

“Hang on pardners, I ain’t poached this, I was riding out to give it to you, as way of an invitation to a fandango we’re havin’ on account of the new nickel my government’s made.” And with that Dallas pulled out a shiny Indian head nickel with the fat old buffalo on the back and showed it to the two braves.

That’s why there weren’t never no trouble with Indians in that part of the frying pan from that time on. Once folks got to dancing and showing off their Saturday night duds, there weren’t no reason for fighting.

Dallas didn’t always have perfect luck, that’s true. He was the only cowboy I knew with a wooden leg. It was a beautiful affair, don’t get me wrong, gilded with Spanish gold in a ranchero tradition. Of course that was his Saturday night leg, he did have a workaday limb. It was fashioned out of a hickory tree from back in the Maine woods. In fact it was from the same tree that took his leg away from him. A black bear chased him up it, the tree came down, killed the bear and crushed his leg. Dallas had no choice but take the bear claw and cut his leg off to get out from under it. Short one leg and stuck in the woods, he found a sturdy branch with an appropriate bend for a foot, strapped it on and walked 37 miles back to Bangor and decided New England had too many trees, so he headed west for the prairie country.

He came on across the United States, as few states as there were back then, and settled down in Texas to a real cowboy life where there weren’t no tall trees to fall on you.

Cuss the luck that day Dallas got caught in a prairie fire. That ain’t no weather for a wooden leg. Dallas and his gentle Indian pony were racing to the river trying to save their hides. Literally racing. Dallas loved his pony so much he didn’t want to burden her   with his weight so he hopped down and took off on foot and crook. He and his mare were neck and neck with the fire licking at their heels, which started the hickory one to burning, and by the time they were up to the river, Dallas just had to jump and hope he made it in ’cause he didn’t have no more hickory leg left. That wasn’t the only heartbreak that day. His gentle Indian pony was truly a smart chunk of horse flesh but she couldn’t swim. And Dallas, with only half a fin could just float himself, and he watched brokenhearted as his compadre drown. They both washed down river and up to the shore out of the fires reach.

Dallas didn’t lay there long before deciding he had to get up and give his trail partner a decent and fitting burial. Problem was, gettin’ up. There aint no hickory in texas. In fact, in prairie land their ain’t nothing firmer than the dirt. But what the good lord did provide was four strong pony legs within reachin’ distance.

Tired as Dallas was from the runnin’ and jumpin’, floatin’ and hopin’ for the best, he knew a cowboy could do his sleepin’ in the winter time, and right now he had to get back to the ranch or he’d be brushin’ the teeth of buzzards. Asking his old pony’s permission and forgiveness, he set to removing her good left rear leg.

Not more’n twelve paces, which is nothing but 24 good hops, Dallas was saddled up to a seven foot tall star thistle with purple flowers and white deadly needles. Just what he needed to sew the pony’s leg to his. Dallas found the biggest prick on the star thistle and broke that some bucket off and milked the poison out. Taking his pony’s reins he threaded the leg on with the good leather and found himself cantering back to the ranch dreamin’ about the North lands, where there ain’t no trees, and there ain’t no prairie fires. It wasn’t long after that the best cowboy in Texas moved to Fairbanks, Alaska. For the rest of his years his only complaint was the cost of mail order horse shoes and lack of a farrier.