Lala Y El Vaquero

I’ve been a cowgirl for 12 years, standing my post on the porch of the living room everyday, waiting to warn off delivery men who might want to infiltrate. It was perfect for me as I basked in the sun, but that all changed when El Vaquero joined our band.

One Sunday, a day usually reserved for quiet reflection and carne asada, the cow boss and range boss said we should go on a ride. I have issues riding now, but they said they wanted me to meet somebody. When we got to the place, we met a young cowboy. He was young and spry, and nice enough that I stayed polite to him. I’m not a fan of meeting new cowboys, they can be rowdy and have very little knowledge of personal space. His band was talking to mine, but I didn’t think much of it. Then we went into the general store, and my band started buying supplies. Rubber ball, treats, and a food bowl. We already had all of those back at home, so why would we need more? It slowly dawned on me that we were in neutral territory. My band wanted the young cowboy to come back with us! I have never needed nor wanted another member, they had never asked me for my opinion.

When we got back to the range, that cowboy ran all over to explore. He wanted to get to know everything and everyone immediately. He quickly became known as El Vaquero.

I sat on my porch, watching, until he wanted to sit right next to me. As I suspected, the boy had never heard of personal space. I growled my displeasure at him. He didn’t notice nor mind, he still wanted to learn whatever he could from me. Supposedly he’s not deaf or blind, but I still suspect, since he has no concept of spatial awareness. One time his butt knocked against a door that he was sitting next to and he turned around to see who did it.

The young cowboy is a troublemaker too, poking around in things he shouldn’t (like trash cans, stealing tissues and dryer sheets), but it’s a good thing he’s young and adorable, or the band would’ve run him out by now. Or, at least, there are the thoughts I console myself with.

Apparently the cow boss, who happens to be my mother, thought a partner on the porch would be great for me! He could help me with my rounds, making sure everyone in the band is doing okay, and making sure outsiders, such as pesky delivery people, keep their distance. It was the range boss, my father, who resisted. He knew how much work it would take to train a young cowboy in our ways. But my mother insisted. There was a vote in the band, and the cow boss’ choice won out.

My father confided in me later that he didn’t want to like the young El Vaquero, but the boy was so nice, friendly, and had such nice boots, he just couldn’t resist.

To be fair, El Vaquero has grown on me. He’s helpful when negotiating for more fresh meat.

Whenever I want to meet with the cow boss, or even the range boss, he always wants to come along too. I don’t have the heart to tell him that we don’t have to be with the same person at the same time all the time.

One night, after a particularly good chicken dinner, he tells me that our band rescued him. His last two bands had not been welcoming, or were overcrowded. I hate to admit it, but he fits right in here. El Vaquero is friendly to everyone. He has a soft heart, and his ears are too. His dedication to the band is limitless, and that’s good enough for me. We’ve even found good spacing together on the porch. This range is big enough for the two of us.

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