Nancy Steele

It was the ugliest dog Tate had ever seen. Scruffy, wiry hair covered its scrawny frame, sticking up in random tufts. A scarred lip pulled one side of its mouth into a permanent sneer, revealing uneven teeth set in an undershot jaw. The sneer was accentuated by a dark moustache of hair drooping from the dog's upper lip, giving it the look of a villain from a John Wayne Western. It turned its head slightly and Tate noticed it was missing an eye. Yep, it was the ugliest dog he had ever seen, and all ten pounds of it was perched on his duffel bag.

Tate was a bull fighter who traveled all over Oregon, Washington, and Idaho protecting cowboys from the bulls they tried to ride every week. He had grown up on a cattle ranch near Burns, and from the first time he'd rolled under a cow and climbed the fence to escape a charging bull, all he'd ever wanted to be was a bull fighter. He was no Shorty Gorham, but young as he was, he was pretty good. After all, he was still alive. His folks were behind him, seeing as how his dad, Spud Wilcox, was a Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame cowboy himself. Tate's mom worried about him, but she knew it was in his blood: he just tried to keep as much of that blood on the inside as he could. He had just finished in the ring; he was hot, dusty, tired, and a little sore from the hit he taken when Monkey Butt, a bull who was more of a bulldozer, had plowed into him with his shoulder. All he wanted now was to get his gear and head for the showers, then maybe grab a beer.

Usually he kept his bag in his truck, a battered Toyota with more miles on it than he liked to think about, but he had rolled into St. Paul late today and had to beat feet to get to the ring on time, so he had left the bag back near the corrals and hoped it would be there when he returned. It was there all right, complete with a passenger.

"Hey, Tater!" Exclaimed Larry Stone, one of the cowboys, as he sauntered past, "Looks like you got a gopher on yer bag!" He laughed loudly at his own wit.

Tate smiled wanly back. "Looks like it," he said. A few other guys, cowboys and chute hands, began to crowd around. The dog hunkered down & glowered suspiciously with its one eye.

"Git offa there, critter!" Said Larry, approaching Tate's bag and its guardian. The dog squinted its eye and its sneer deepened into a snarl. A rumbling growl rolled from its throat, sounding more like a Rottweiler than a gopher. Larry took another step and waved his arms. The dog erupted into a frenzy of angry barks, glaring up at Larry with an expression of pure hatred. "Whoa!" Larry exclaimed, backing off a few steps. "That thing is pissed off!"

Tate sighed. "Larry, just leave him be. You're scarin' him." At the sound of Tate's voice, the dog quit barking.

"He ain't scared," said Larry, "He's fixin' to gnaw my boot off! How you gonna get him off yer stuff?"

Tate shook his head. "I reckon I'll have to wait him out," he said.

Larry guffawed. "Good luck."

The loudspeaker crackled and then amplified the announcer's voice: barrel racing started in five minutes. Everyone standing around staring at the spectacle of the ugly little dog hastily left, going to the arena to see those girls fly. Only Tate remained, wondering what to do. Just then, Tate's bull fighting buddy Ponyboy strolled up. Ponyboy was an Indian from Grand Ronde with a wicked sense of humor. "My mom named me after a fictional teenage cracker from Oklahoma, outta her favorite book. Of course I've got a sense of humor," he'd say. He was tough, smart, and lightning quick, so there was no one else Tate would rather have at his back in the ring. Now Ponyboy beheld the spectacle of Tate and the dog facing each other and stopped in mid-stride.

"Hey, Homeboy, what gives?" His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Hey, bud. This little dog won't budge offa my gear."

"You sure? Did ya try to shift him?"

"Naw, but Larry did, and he went nuts."

"Larry Stone?" Ponyboy snorted. "That jackass couldn't shift the Wranglers off a drunk buckle bunny. Just go easy with this little guy & he'll move on. Dang, he's ugly, innit?"

"Yep, he is." Tate knew dogs well enough; his dad always had dogs on the farm to help with rounding up, mostly cattle dogs who lived to work. Never had Tate met with a dog like this little mutt, but he had to do something with him or he'd never get that shower (not to mention the beer). He moved a little closer, then squatted down. "Hey, little fella," he said quietly. "Come on now...I'm not gonna hurt ya..." The dog regarded him impassively for a few heartbeats, then stood up, shook itself, and stepped off the bag. Tate's mouth fell open. He looked up at Ponyboy. "Man, you shoulda seen how it went after Larry. It was crazy."

Ponyboy shrugged. "Yeah well, can you blame him?" He regarded Tate and the dog for a moment. "Look here, Tate...maybe that ugly dog is your spirit guide." His expression was serious.

"What's that? Something your people believe?"

"Naw, white boy, I saw it on "The Simpsons". I'm just yankin' ya." White teeth flashed in Ponyboy's tanned face as he grinned at Tate, then walked off chuckling to himself. Tate shook his head with a grin of his own. Ponyboy was always razzing him.

He straightened up with a slight grimace; he was stiffening up and could use a couple of Tylenol. He edged slowly towards his bag, keeping his eyes on the dog in case it changed its mind and went Cujo again. He couldn't help smiling to himself as the name entered his mind. "Easy there, Cujo," he said as he picked up his gear. The ugly little dog cocked his head and looked up into Tate's face. His smile widened. "Cujo, is it? Huh, whaddya know. Thanks for watching my gear, son, but I gotta go now." He turned to walk away and the little dog followed. His smile changed to a frown. "No way, bud. I can barely feed myself most times. I don't need a dog." Cujo blinked his one eye and stepped closer. He wagged his crooked stump of a tail. "Aww, man..." Tate drawled, "That is just playin' dirty." Cujo's tail wagged faster. Tate sighed. "Well, c'mon then." They both limped slightly as they headed off across the fairgrounds.

So Tate had himself a dog. He bought a bag of discount dog chow, since Cujo didn't seem to be the picky type, and made him a bed out of an old burlap sack. Cujo made himself at home in Tate's truck, and appeared to be enjoying the nomadic lifestyle they now shared. The Toyota racked up even more miles between rodeos in Philomath, Ellensburg, Pasco, and even Sedro Woolley. They varied in size and scope from the dinky Fourth of July dust-thumper in Eugene (where a group of hippies sat outside the grounds protesting cruelty to animals by singing “Kumbaya”), to the Big One in Pendleton, where no one in the Let Er Buck Saloon blinked twice at Cujo sitting under Tate’s chair. Tate enjoyed having a travelling buddy; he could tell that ugly dog all kinds of things he would never tell another soul, like his dream of being a country singer, or the crush he had on the fiddle player from the Dixie Chicks, even though she didn't have red hair. Cujo listened raptly to everything, nodding occasionally or belching at the most solemn revelations. He kept Tate from taking life too seriously. He also defended the truck with enough ferocity to have earned his name, so Tate never worried about leaving his stuff in there, which was good since he more or less lived out of it. It would take a brave or desperate man to face down ten pounds of pure yap dog fury.

Of course everyone gave him nine kinds of hell for having such an ugly dog: it was certain that Cujo was winning no beauty contests. Everywhere they went, people stopped and stared at Cujo’s ugly mug, quickly making him notorious for startling grown men and frightening small children. Tate just smiled his slow, good-natured grin when the insults flew. "Yeah well," he'd drawl, "this dog's got character." Cujo trotted impassively at his heels, ignoring everyone except Larry Stone, whom he hated with a vengeance. "That ugly dog knows what he's talkin' about," Ponyboy often said.

They were all in Pocatello one weekend when Ponyboy strutted up to Tate sporting a new bright red football jersey and a look of extreme self-satisfaction. "Check it out, paleface!" He exclaimed, pointing to his chest. A large black number "1" was emblazoned on it. He pivoted to display the back of the jersey, which also had a number "1". Across his broad shoulders, where most jerseys showed a player's name, were the words, "Dances with Bulls."

Tate whistled low. "Wow, man, that is cool."

Ponyboy grinned even wider than usual. "You know it! I saved up for months to special order this thing. I just got it. Am I not the baddest Indian around?"

Tate nodded his head slowly in admiration. "Damn straight."

Ponyboy's feet scuffed the dirt excitedly. "Gotta get gone, bud. Seeya out there." He slapped Tate a high five and marched off.

Tate left Cujo in the truck as usual, with a bowl of water and a bone. "Later, bud. Don't let anyone steal our truck, now." He ginned as Cujo wagged his sad excuse for a tail and settled down to gnaw at the bone. As Tate headed out to the arena, his pulse quickened as he thought of what was to come. It was dirty & dangerous, but he loved his job.

It was one of those nights. First there was Whip It, a little Mexican bull who stormed out of the chute, stumbled, and fell flat, pinning his rider to the ground. Whip It heaved himself to his feet, shaking his head and staggering slightly. Frank Watts, the cowboy, hung limply from the rigging like a rag doll, knocked out. Ponyboy rushed in, pulling his jersey off as he ran. He threw himself on Whip It's head, covering the bull's eyes with the shirt, immobilizing him. Tate was right behind him, cutting the rigging as fast a possible to free the trapped Watts. Frank slid slowly to the ground with Tate's help, and Ponyboy uncovered the bull's eyes. Whip It made his way to the gate with a very confused expression on his face. Frank Watts looked about the same.

Then came T-Bone, a bull known on the circuit for being mean spirited and especially quick for his size. Chute hands frequently threatened to turn him into his namesake cut of meat. A cowboy with the unlikely name of Bingo James was aboard, but not for long. T-Bone threw him in a flash and turned on a dime with murder in his eye and Bingo in his sights. Tate darted in and slapped the bull lightly on the neck. "Hey!" He hollered, turning to lead the varmint away from James. T-Bone whirled again, leaping forward at the same time to stare Tate full in the face. Time stopped as the bull stood still, slobber hanging in strings from his jaws and breath puffing from his nostrils. He feinted a step left, drawing Tate's eye, then charged to the right, catching Tate on his horns and throwing him high into the air. The arena lights blurred as Tate flew closer to them, then to the sky, which froze in his vision as he saw a single bright star gleaming in the blue-black void. The star shrank smaller and smaller as he plummeted back towards the earth, landing with a thud on hard muscle instead of dirt. T-Bone was still standing in the same spot, and Tate landed on the big bull's hip, which caused the creature to whip around in surprise, flinging Tate across the ring to slide through the dirt. His head slammed against the ground and all the lights went out.

Ponyboy was frantic, but he knew he had to stay cool in order to help Tate. He whooped & hollered, waving his arms in an attempt to distract the bull. T-Bone was having none of it. The yells and slaps of the little men were like irritating flies to him. He finally had one on the ground & unmoving. He stepped closer to Tate's prone body. Suddenly, a tiny brown blur streaked across the arena, coming to a halt on Tate's chest. Cujo's tatty hackles were raised in fury, and every one of his crooked teeth were visible as he snarled at the huge bull. T-Bone blinked in surprise, but he was undaunted. He pawed at the dirt, preparing to charge. Cujo hurled himself at the bull, snarling and snapping like a thing possessed. His teeth made contact with the immense snout, and T-Bone backpedaled, shaking his head in confusion. Cujo drove forward, barking madly. The bull snorted deep in his chest & continued to back up. He had seen rats before, but never one like this. It was too much for his slow wits to comprehend, and he shambled off towards the gate. Cujo aimed one last bark at the retreating mountain of muscle and returned to Tate, who was beginning to come around.

The EMTs rushed in, but Ponyboy got there first. He was pale and shaking. "Tate...you okay, man? I thought you were a goner." Tate blinked slowly & looked up at all the faces surrounding him. Cujo was sitting on his chest. "I'm all right...just got my bell rung is all...how'd...how'd my dog get in here?" He asked groggily. Pony boy shook his head. "You ain't gonna believe me if I tell you, but one way or another, that ugly dog is eatin' steak for dinner tonight. And you'd better make it a T-Bone." Cujo wagged his tail.