The Cowboy

The Cowboy.
The.
Cowboy.
That’s right.
He’s long.
A lama when stretched over a boulder looking for a better view.
Too long.
Clumsy.

Runs into unsuspecting Tourists who are too busy saying “Look at all the dogs, honey. They’re sleeping!” to see him bounding towards them with his head looking back over his shoulder at whatever dog is chasing him and most likely Mounting him soon.

The Cowboy doesn’t mind.

He swings his hinges left right, up down, and has been spotted (and relentlessly
photographed) humping the air both when fully conscious and in his sleep. The Lip Stick will show up in many family albums all across Asia.

But like I said before, he don’t Mind.
He’s the f’in Cowboy.
Black and white spots.
Black eye mask and he ain’t afraid to chase a cat.
Even our cat. They are both black and white.

The other dogs in town will owe their Life to The Cowboy. 700 euros in donations all around town with a main emphasis on You Know Who. That’s food and a few bits of medicine all on account of a dog with different colored testicles.

Oh, didn’t I mention that The Cowboy rolls with a mixed set? One black. One pink. Racially all inclusive. The black and white cookie. You think that stops him from licking in the middle of the square on a Sunday afternoon? Don’t you remember who we’re dealing with here?

He’s young. Less than a year old. So he barks on occasion, and is always last to get involved in a territorial skirmish in the square. He remembers what it was like a few months when he was the new Kid with no name. Now he’s snagging books off of our front display and carrying them around town. Free advertising. A few torn pages and a lot of charm. Because now you see. He’s the mother f’in Cowboy, and if you don’t know, now you know.

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