Early February, a long time ago, a young Samson was herded into a stall. A small rhesus monkey squealed and chattered as it bounded from stall door to stall door, with a group of cowboy-hatted humans running after it, some of them splitting up to cut it off. It finally landed in Samson’s stall.
“Hey, buddy, do me a favor, will ya?" it asked with a high-pitched grating voice. “Lay down and hide me, okay, pardner?"
Samson stared at the little monkey. “That hay hasn’t been cleaned in a couple of days….”
“Never mind," blurted the little monkey, “that stuff washes off. I’m not riding that stupid dog again.”
Samson rolled his eyes and lay down beside the monkey as he hid under the hay. The humans rushed past them, not suspecting a thing. When all was clear, Samson got up, looked at his short brown fur, and stuck out his tongue in disgust.
The monkey timidly peeked out of the hay and then stood up, brushing off various bits of straw and cow pie. He smiled at Samson. “Thanks. Wearing that human stuff is just outright humiliatin’, you know. An’ I’ve known more smarts on animals than that stupid black and white Scottish sheepdog. He just happily trots around in circles, while I have to ride him and look like I’m enjoyin’ it.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Ta think I left the jungle for this crap.”
“You’re not the dramatic type, then?" Samson asked, carefully picking straw out his fur.
“Nuh-uh. I mean, I know it’s a livin’, and I know I got it better than half the poor schmuks aroun’ here, bound for their destinies and such … but I like rilin’ ‘em up every now an’ again, just ta make things interestin’.”
“I’m Samson, by the way.”
“Zippy.” He pointed at the small bull. “You meat or seed?"
“I beg you’re pardon?"
The little monkey stared at him. “You types, I’ve seen it before: ya got two destinies, they cut ya up or you become their latest love machine for all the nice young cattle girls.” He nodded over to the area where the pigs were kept. “Oinkers got it the same way, horses too. I’m just lucky I ain’t got enough meat on me ta bother.” He looked up at Samson. “Hey, you’re the only one I’ve seen ‘round here who don’t like the accommodations. What’s the problem with YOU?"
Samson shrugged. “I don’t like to get dirty.” He held up his front hooves. “These don’t clean very well.”
Zippy chuckled. “I got ya covered, pardner.” He jumped up on Samson and started grooming him. “You’re the most strangest bull I ever met. I hope they make you a stud. It’s sure better than the alternative, y’know. A guy who takes that much interest in his appearance’ll make great stock some day.”
Samson evaluated the monkey’s work. “You’re quite … ooh," he gasped as Zippy reached a particularly tender region, “… um … thorough.”
Zippy jumped off and admired his work. He held up his hands. “You need fingers, pardner. Any primate’ll do, even those moronic humans. We primates are kinda agile, as you can see f’r yourself. You hook up and do the whole ‘symbiosis’ thing … and you’ll come out just fine.” He spotted some humans who had spotted him and sighed. “Guess that’s the end of the run for me, lil’ bull. Make sure you don’t win that show, hear? That one always gets the blade. Find some other way to impress ‘em. Studdin’ will at least keep ya alive.”
Samson knew he had to get out of there. Some humans approached him, including his trainer, and he realized his number was up.
Samson awoke, gasping loudly. He had been sleeping on the couch, the remote flying off his chest as he shot up.
“Sorry, Sammy … I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Samson looked up to see Lena, dressed in a slinky gown, and blinked. “Uh, Lena? What time is it?"
She glanced at her watch. “About two-thirty.”
“PM?" Samson shouted as he sprung up, rushing past the couch to head upstairs, tearing off his silver robes. He stopped and turned, embarrassed. He rubbed his neck. “Uh …”
Lena chuckled, smiling, waving him on. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, Sammy. Go get dressed, okay?"
Later, he came downstairs and noticed Lena cooking in the kitchen. “Where’s Bobby?"
“At my house, talking to some girl from back ‘ome, I zink.” She stopped what she was doing and smiled at him warmly. “He’ll come back, Sammy. Bobby just needed to take care of some things.”
Samson cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I’m not worried about him or anything.”
“Of course not.”
“It’s just that it’s been a little longer than usual, and the political atmosphere what it is, I just think it’s somewhat responsible to let someone’s partner know where he is.” He glanced at her. “Why are you cooking?"
“You deserve a break, Sammy," Lena replied. “I know how you get when you an’ Bobby are having a zing.”
“We are not having a ‘thing’," Samson retorted curtly.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, we are not.”
“Oui. It is most definitely a zing.”
“I beg to differ.”
Lena plopped down a spatula. “Are you afraid zat asking Bobby to come back will look like begging?"
Samson crossed his arms and turned away. “Of course not, Lena. That’s preposterous.”
Lena smirked and started cooking again. “Oui. My mistake.” She glanced lovingly at him. “I’m not here to tell you your business.”
“Then why are you here?"
Lena stopped again. “Foster.”
Samson broke out of his gloomy mood and stared at her in shock. “Did something happen?"
“Oui. He got mugged in ze subway. Idiot did it in front of security. Crooks these days have no intelligence whatsoever. I don’t know why zis country is so afraid of zem.”
“And he called you instead of us?" Samson asked, his voice rising in panic.
Lena taste-tested something and shrugged. “Something about there not being an ‘us’," she told him matter-of-factly. She looked at him, watching him droop his head in guilt. Finally, he started walking over to his cell phone. “I doubt he’s going to answer.”
“I’m not calling Foster," Samson said sadly.
Lena was shocked. “You’re not?"
Samson sighed. “No, I’m canceling all my appointments this week. I’m going to New York.”
A brief smile flashed over Lena’s face.
edit Note: Zippy and the Sheepdog act was a real act in 1965, according the Fort Worth Stock Show's website.
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