I stare out across a fertile plain, a view many might call mundane. The waving heads of wheat comfort me; The low, rolling clouds help contain my wandering fancies. I’m not saying I like the midwest now or being away from the city. Perhaps I’m just content with my little corner as I’ve carved it.
The crazy German lady, last I heard, was on her way to Brazil. That only makes sense when you account for the fact that I told her I would meet her there after trying like crazy for two months to ditch her. She’s not back here largely on account of the fact that I’ve changed my name. Twice.
The ranch hands still call me Tugger though. I call them friends.
This is a happy place, a private place. The sign over the entrance way swings in the wind jangling the happy chimes beneath. With bold letters, which I painted myself, it proclaims the name of the place and reason it came to be. It’s an odd name for a ranch, granted, but I’m sticking with it.
I’ve become quite accustomed to life here at “Black Betty”.