Rod Miller: Emotional Support Critters Around the Ol’ Campfire

It was a dusky night around the ol’ campfire, with coyotes and state lawmakers both howling in the distance. 

“Hey, how come the Trail Boss don’t let us bring our emotional support animals to the campfire?” Goshen Gus fanned smoke away from his face with his sweaty Stetson. 

Panhandle fed the fire, and said, “Gus, yer emotional support critter is that snotty bronc that keeps buckin’ ya off. Nobody wants that outlaw around the fire.” 

“He don’t let me bring my cowdog Hank to the fire, neither,” whined Latigo Lou. “I get sorrowful when Hank ain’t around.” 

Panhandle retorted, “Hank is the dumbest potlicker that ever peed on a bush. If the Trail Boss allowed ya to bring him to the fire, he’d just eat all our s’mores. Besides, this is a cowcamp, not Noah’s Ark.”

Lou’s eyebrows scrunched together.

“Yer one to talk, Panhandle,” Lou shot back. “Yer emotional support critter is that rattlesnake ya keep in a box under yer bed back at the bunkhouse. The only time ya ever show that poor buzztail any love is when yer havin’ woman trouble.” 

Our lonesome cowpokes pined for their pets as they sat beside the smoldering fire. It’s a fact of life out in the harsh Big Empty that a man needs companionship as he goes about his hard and dangerous work. 

Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins perked up, and informed his colleagues, “All we gotta do is get a letter from a doc sayin’ we cain’t function without our critters. Then we can take ‘em with us everywhere we go. It’s the law!” 

Sweetwater Slim scratched his noggin and said, “I can see it now, Rawhide. Yer gonna get a license from a doc so ya can call that li’l redheaded soiled dove from the Ruby Rooms down on Front Street yer emotional support critter, an’ bring her to the campfire.” 

Rawhide Ricky rose to the bait, “Slim, a sumbitch as sour as y’all oughta have a badger for a support critter. Every time ya get anxious, ya can scratch his belly, an’ feel better about what’s goin’ on in yer life.” 

A lively debate ensued, as the trail-weary cowhands discussed the relative merits of members of the animal kingdom, and how each one could help a broncpeeler cope with life’s challenges. Geese were mentioned as particularly unflappable, and tasty if they died. 

Cows were crossed off the list, because the crew was too familiar with their disgusting personal habits. Sheep were not even mentioned. 

Kangaroos were brought up as ideal emotional support critters, but the cowboys doubted they could survive January in Wyoming. Prairie dogs are cute, but they carry bubonic plague, so that’s a downside. 

Were feathers better than fur on an emotional support critter? (At this question, Panhandle bristled and said that left out reptiles.) Soft and cuddly, or loyal and strong – which quality provides more emotional support? They wondered. 

They debated dogs versus cats. Fish were discounted as impractical on a long trail drive. Should an emotional support critter fit in a saddlebag or trot alongside? Would food for the critter need to be packed, or could it kill bunnies along the trail? That seemed to cancel bunnies as candidates. 

After much discussion, the cowboys decided that a duckbilled platypus had all the qualities to be the perfect emotional support animal. That is until Panhandle said, “Them bastids have a poison pecker, an’ they’ll kill a feller quick as a cobra.” 

Cookie had been eavesdropping on the campfire chatter, and he hollered, “Anyone hungry? Beans are ready.” 

At this, the crew jumped to their feet, rubbed their bellies and said, “’Bout time, we’re all starvin’!” 

As the cowhands shuffled toward the chuckwagon, Cookie snickered and said, “Y’all already got yer emotional support critters with ya. Ya each have a big ol’ tapeworm.”