Humor

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JACK THE JET

I didn't know that Jack could run that fast and neither did he!!

The dew was still wet on the ground when I went to harness Jack to begin plowing the corn. Jack was up in the Pecan orchard with Charley the Tennessee Walking horse and various head of cows and chickens simply fooling around as usual. He had been off from work since Saturday afternoon and wasn't about to let himself be caught by the likes of me. Jack and I had a running battle when it came time to put the bridle on him. Jack somehow considered himself to be superior to me, and in a lot of ways he was.

As was his "MO", when it came time for him to be hitched up for plowing, he turned his back side to me, backed his ears, barred his teeth, and swung his head to the side so he could look me square in the eyes as if to say, "no way man", just keep coming and you'll get yours". I at least had sense enough to stop my advancement. My Dad had to come put the bridle on him, Jack not batting an eye when he approached him. My Dad had gotten his attention sometime in the far distant past and Jack had never forgotten. He told me that a limb did wonders to gain the full attention of a mule.

A little explanation is now in order. A Jack is a male donkey, a mixture between a mare and a mule. Most people interchange the name Mule and Jack to the same animal although mule refers to both the male and the female. A Jack is a hybrid animal that cannot reproduce and I always figured the Good Lord knew what he was doing when he allowed this phenomenon to occur. Our Jack had inherited the stubbornness of his mule dad and the endurance of his mother, and was significantly smaller than his mother and slightly smaller than his dad.
If a Jack is broken properly, then you have a good plow Jack. If he hasn't been broken properly, then you have a migraine headache. Jack fell somewhere in between the two. He was a good plow animal when my dad had the reins, and a migraine headache when I had them.

After the bridle was put on Jack, he became tame as a kitten--that is as long as my dad stayed around. As was his custom, dad hitched the halter, trace chains, singletree and the plow to Jack before turning him over to me to take to the field.

As soon as dad left the field to perform other duties around our small farm there at Caesar, MS, Jack began his usual antics. First he stopped, reached down, and sniped off a morsel of young tender corn stalk. I rapped him with the guide ropes, but being small as I was, he didn't even flinch. He had me right where he wanted me. In my frustration I reached down, picked up a clod of dirt to throw at him and immediately he began to walk again. As soon as I threw the dirt down so I could hold the ropes with both hands, Jack stopped, spread his legs as if to have an "act of nature", all the time walling his eyes back at me as if to say "this is legal buddy, and there ain't a thing you can do about it". After several minutes of waiting for Jack to "do his duty" my patient ran out. I reached down and picked up a clod of dirt to throw at him and he immediately began to walk again.

After several hours of this nonsense I began to get tired and frustrated and ready for a rest. I didn't, however, think that Jack deserved such luxury. After coming to the end of a row, I tied Jack to a fence post, in the sun, and went around back of him to remove the plow. I didn't want him to get tangled in the trace chains.

Jack had somehow discovered another "nasty" he intuitively knew was disgusting to me. Every time I would get next to his rear end, he would expel gas.
To the innocent let me further explain here. Flatus is gas generated within the stomach of an animal or a human being. To expel gas is a natural phenomenon that occurs when the buildup of flatus is so great that it cannot be contained within the stomach. When Jack would expel gas it would start out sounding like a flute, slowly get louder, and wind up sounding like a trumpet. Sometimes it would even sound like bagpipes, or even a French horn. No matter the sound that was made the smell was always the same. Smelled like an exploded possum mixed liberally with a road-killed polecat. This time was no exception. The only difference was that it was extra ripe because we had been feeding him hay mixed with "black strap molasses" known far and wide for its ability to manufacture methane gas in animals. He walled his eyes back at me, got a smirk on his face, and seemed to say "gotcha".

I made up my mind then and there to get even with him. I had read somewhere that the United States Government was thinking of containing the methane gas emitted from garbage dumps and the White House and using it to burn as fuel. There was my answer--methane gas burned!! I knew that the Federal Government was on to something because the politicians were experts in hot air.

The next morning after my dad harnessed Jack, I immediately took off for the field anxious to be alone with him, armed with memories of yesterday and a box of kitchen matches in my overall pockets. Jack started his antics immediately. Reached over and snapped off a corn stalk, spread his legs as if to well, you know, walled his eyes at me, and smirked.

Very casually I walked up to the single tree as if to inspect it and Jack took this opportunity to expel gas in my face. I was ready for him this time!! Before the trumpet had stopped blowing, I reached in my pocket, pulled out the matches, and lit one near the opening of the horn. It looked like a jet flame issued out from under his tail and I guess it was. The flame caught both Jack and me by surprise, but somehow I think Jack was more surprised than I.

The flame caught his tail hair on fire, his ears stood straight up on his head, he walled his eyes around in their sockets several times, brayed loud enough to be heard for several miles, and took off like a jet airplane, bucking, snorting, and making all kinds of commotion, leaving me standing there with a surprised look on my face and rope burns on my hands. By this time he was so excited that he couldn't stop emitting gas. Each time he stopped the emitting gas, the jet flame would go out, but the tail was still on fire. This caused him to get excited again and he emitted gas again, and the jet flame would restart. This went on for several minutes that to both of us seemed an eternity in which time Jack stomped and dragged down about a half acre of corn. The hair on his tail finally burned off and when it did the jet flame stopped.

I caught him in the corner of the fence row on the other side of the field, his bare tail sticking straight out looking somewhat like an over roasted Weiner. He was tame as a kitten, standing there out of wind with his head bowed low, his ears flopped down over his forehead, breathing like it was his last breath. As I walked up to catch him, he quickly turned his backside in the opposite direction.

Word quickly got out, as it usually does in a small community such as Caesar, Mississippi. Everyone had a good laugh; that is except my dad. Some of the local men later told my dad that it would have been worse if Jack had not ran out of gas when he did.

From that day forward, I never had any trouble putting the bridle on Jack. In fact, he always made sure his rear end was pointed away from me. My Dad still had to hitch the plows to him because he wouldn't let me get that close to him anymore, at least not that close to his back side. In fact, I never had any more problems with him stopping in the field for any reason at all, and he seemed to be contented to keep moving as long as I was on the other end of the plow.

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