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Little Doggies
by Frank Minogue
The flags of every horse lovin' state hung from the high arched ceiling. At the far end of the arena the Stars and Stripes took up most of the end wall, and an air conditioning unit caused it to billow patriotically.
On the main floor of the arena, the cowboys warmed up their horses with a quick canter around the track. Up in the stands were family and friends, waiting for their favorite to compete. You could hear the jangle of spurs as cowboys made their way to the restrooms or to the fudge counter. A cowboy needs his fudge.
Outside in the big white tent, the little doggies were being prepped to enter the arena. Power packs were booted, software was checked and double-checked and a buffing crew made sure every doggie had a nice shine.
The playing of the national anthem was the signal for the techies to get the doggies inside and ready for the competition.
While every cowboy inside stood at attention with his hand over his heart, a line of doggies made their way into the arena and into the holding pen.
Bright lights played across the sandy surface of the arena, and an expectant buzz ran through the crowd.
"Let's get this show on the road, folks. We've got semi-finalists from yesterday's competition. Cain't wait to see how it goes today, but first let's thank our sponsors: Ford, John Deere, Reliant BodyForms out of San Rafael, California, and, lastly, Chaps Beer, the cowboy's bestest friend in the West," the announcer said.
Three cowboys on horseback formed a semi-circle facing the end door, while a spotlight played across it. When it finally swung open, out poured the doggies. And the crowd loved it. The 'little doggies' were in their quad mode, meaning they were now on all fours, had extended their necks, 'grown' tails and horns and had enlarged their nostrils. Their 'milling about' software kicked in, and you could even hear actual cattle bawling sounds.
The announcer read off the names of the first cutting team and a buzzer sounded to start the competition.
One cowboy urged his horse forward to 'cut' the first batch of doggies out. The crowd applauded as the doggies were cut down to one, and the others were allowed to rejoin the herd. The object at this point was to keep the lone doggie from doing the same.
"Folks, look at that horse work," called the announcer. "It's pure team work. Man and beast."
The doggie burst left, trying to make an end run around the horse and rider, but the horse knew the game and moved instinctively to block. Even when the doggie feinted back and forth, the horse was there——and the audience loved it. A good cutting horse had that gut sense. It was just a matter of letting it do its job.
The doggie turned, ran hard to the left and slid on all fours into the sand. It quickly got to its feet and headed in the opposite direction, only to be met by another cowboy. Finally, the time buzzer sounded and the doggie was allowed to return to the herd. The audience applauded the good work.
"That was some great cuttin' out there, and here comes our next team. By the way, folks, them doggies shouldn't feel bad, my wife cuts me off like that when I try to get another beer."
The competition continued with three more sets of riders in quick succession. Each managed to keep the doggie from slipping around them. Most of the doggies were now dirty from falling in the sand and horse poop.
In the midst of one event, a doggie fell in the sand, tried to get up but couldn't. One of the riders ambled over and signaled for a tech team. As the crowd watched, the doggie's left forelimb began flopping up and down, as if it was getting rapid and high jolts of electricity.
"Looks like we got us a live one. Anyone got a screwdriver?"
The white clad tech team ran out, one of them carrying a silver briefcase. Now the doggie's right leg started kicking.
"If it gets that other leg goin', we can have a hoedown," said the announcer to laughter. Meanwhile the cutting cowboys sat on their horses and talked on their cell phones.
Taking care to avoid the flailing limbs the lead tech guy flopped the doggie over on its back, flipped open a tiny door and pressed a button. Immediately, the doggie went still. The other techie opened the briefcase, ran a couple of wires to a port on the doggie's neck and flicked on a small video screen inside the case.
It didn't take two minutes for him to shake his head and signal for a couple of stretcher boys to come out.
"Looks like he's a goner! Well, they'll get him off the field, and we'll get back to business."
The techies straightened its legs and arms and helped set the robot on the stretcher. The non functioning doggie was carried out of the arena to much applause from the crowd.
Inside the tent were other bots from the previous day. Most required only that the software be reloaded while others would need extensive work and would be shipped back to the lab in California.
The competition continued until late the next afternoon when, for most of the cowboys and spectators, the real fun began.
Officially the final event was known as American Discovery, but everyone knew it as the 'turkey shoot.' This always drew a big crowd, and nearly all the cowboys signed up for it. Spectators were also allowed to participate.
The techies reprogrammed the doggies, and they went from quadruped cattle to bipedal Indians——bad Indians. Two costumers dressed and put makeup on the bots, and each was armed with a rubber tomahawk and knife.
With the arena cleared, the doggies, now Indians, marched in single file back into the arena. In the center of the arena sat a wagon with actors playing a pioneer family.
With everyone in place, including the fire marshal in the stands, the lights went down and the announcer, over the sound of tom-toms said, "The brave American pioneers who set off in wagon trains to civilize this great land faced many hardships: starvation, sickness, blizzards——but their greatest hardship was an unseen enemy, an enemy determined to keep the land underdeveloped and un-Christian. This enemy was the savage Indian."
Up came the lights and out came the Indians, with everyone booing. They ran in tight formation around the arena, waving their tomahawks and making pre-recorded war cries from their sound systems. The sound of drums grew louder. When the Indians reached the far end of the arena on their second lap, they stopped and one of them pointed to the wagon, which, up till this point, had been unlit. Now a spotlight hit it. The Indians charged, surrounding the wagon and attacking with their knives and tomahawks. The pioneer family retreated to the safety of the fudge exit, with the dad firing as he retreated.
Following an electronic signal from one of the techies, the wagon burst into flame. The crowd loved it. A bugle sounded. From the opposite end the big gates swung open and in came the cavalry, dressed in blue, with Winchesters at the ready.
To avoid having cowboys shooting one another with real bullets, the weapon used was a smart gun, which did not fire an actual bullet, but when pointed at certain 'hotspots' on the Indian's body would signal a 'blood' capsule to burst, making it look as though the Indian had been shot. Some of the capsules were squirters, some were sprayers and some literally gushed the dark red fluid. If an Indian took more than four hits, it was programmed to 'die.'
"Wow, look at Don Kingman of Cheyenne, Wyoming, he just fired two perfectly placed rounds into that Injun——and it's still standing."
One family from Las Cruces, New Mexico, stood high in the stands and fired en famille. Hits were celebrated by high fives.
"There's one trying to get over wall, boys. Don't let him git away!"
The Indian got halfway over the wall before being felled by a volley of shots. Red fluid spurted into the sand.
"I think he's done sprung a leak!"
In a touching scene one Indian stood in front of another one, taking enough shots in the chest to cause it to fall face forward in the sand. The other Indian ran but a nice shot to the head took its eye out.
"Can someone turn on the light, I cain't see a thing!"
The one-eyed bot continued across the arena, but a kid from Tennessee, who hadn't hit a thing, finally put one right through the heart. An explosion of blood followed and the Indian sank to its knees.
"Nice shootin' from the stands. Let's give that youngster a round of applause!"
When the last Indian had been killed, the cavalry did one last ride around the arena to booming applause.
"Brangs tears to your eyes, doesn't it, folks?"
That night the competition officially ended with a barbecue and dance, and not a bottle of Chaps was left standing.
By ten the next the morning everyone was on the road heading west to Montana. The bright light of morning dimmed as the hours passed, and soon they had driven right into a powerful thunderstorm which brought visibility down to a fudge length.
No one saw the twister drop from the clouds, bearing down on the convoy. It hit like a bomb, blowing every truck in its path off the road.
It caught the rig hauling the bots from the side, sucked out the driver and passenger, and whirled the trailer around like it was a panty on a fingertip. Out spilled the bots. Most were torn up immediately by the cyclonic winds, and some were flung far into the fields, losing body parts as they went.
But one of the bots hit the ground intact, causing its dormant power pack to boot. As the twister careened off into the distance, the bot came to full power. In a minute it had extended its neck, grew its horns and a tail and was standing in the quad mode.
A familiar sound from behind caused the bot to turn its doggie head. Nearby stood a herd of Black Angus cattle. The bot returned the moo sounds, and walked over to the black herd. After some initial sniffing, cud chewing and green plops deposited, the herd accepted the new white angus and headed for the feed trough.
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