Distinctly Montana Magazine

48 D I S T I N C T LY M O N TA N A M A G A Z I N E • FA L L 2 0 2 6 OLD BROKE RANCHER BY GARY SHELTON by GARY SHELTON T rals Ernie wh T HE OTHER DAY, I HURT ERNIE'S FEELINGS WHEN I ALMOST WENT INTO TOWN TO THE PHARMACY AT STOKES WITHOUT HER. Ernie is the puppy I said I'd never get. Though my resolve was adamantine—no puppies for old men—the little sumbitch won me over, and she's sitting on my feet right now. She's so warm and snuggly that I have re- moved my slippers and slipped my feet back under her belly, wriggling them now and then so that she knows her daddy loves her. I've loved every dog I've ever had, but there's something about Ernie that makes me want her to know I love her, so I try to tell her so every day. One way that I show Ernie that I love her is by taking her to the pharmacy. I go to the pharmacy; let's see, I'm just estimating here, but I would guess nine times a week. This is because my doctor, Doctor Pisberg, has prescribed me a handful of pills a morning. And that's not a human handful, either. At minimum, an orangutan's or bigger. I have so many prescriptions, all stag- gered, that it seems I am always and forever running out of one pill or another. For breakfast, I will toss this dozen or so pills across the table and then gulp them down like I'm a Hungry Hungry Hippo only to realize I'm out of that little orange pill, or the little stop-sign shaped white pill, and then, oh boy, it's off to the pharmacy. Ernie likes to go with me to the pharmacy because, if she plays her cards right, I'll get her a piece of jerky there. She considers the pharmacy beef jerky to be among the best in the world. Also, should she accompany me inside, someone is sure to fawn all over her and shower her with pets and smooches. Ernie carries on wiggling all the while, wagging her voluminous tail grateful- ly. One of the pharmacists, when she's there, even scratches her behind the ears and calls her "her little fluffybutt." On the way to Stokes, as I drive down Main Street, Ernie will sit next to me in the cab of the truck, peering over the dash with her baleful eyes, which always seem somehow sad and knowing, ROBERT RATH

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