It’s the Pitts: Saint Peter and the Sandman

By Lee Pitts

On a wall in my office is a sign which reads, “Employees dying on the job are failing to fall down. This practice must stop, as it becomes impossible to distinguish between death and the natural movement of the staff. In the future, any employee found dead in the upright position will be dropped from the payroll.”

I mention this because I have the same problem with animals. I can’t tell the live ones from the dead ones. 

Just last week, my wife and I were driving on the road adjoining the horse pasture, and I noticed the buzzards circling over Gentleman’s body. 

“Oh, no. He’s dead,” I screamed hysterically as I wheeled into the horse pasture.

“No, he’s just sleeping,” said my wife calmly.

“Then why are the buzzards circling?” I asked.

“Gentleman has never had the best horse hygiene, if you know what I mean,” said my wife sarcastically.

“He’s dead I tell you. He’s saddled a cloud and rode to the great beyond,” I said.

Despite my serenading him with my best rendition of “Wake up, wake up, you sleepy head, come on, come on, get out of bed,” Gentleman didn’t twitch a muscle, so I got the chain out of the truck to drag my departed steed to the bone pile. 

About the time I made my second half hitch around Gentleman’s hind leg, my good horse miraculously came back to life.

“How did you know he wasnʼt dead?” I asked my wife.

“Horses generally don’t die standing up,” she replied accurately. 

Now all I ever hear when we see Gentleman is the sarcastic comment, “Looks pretty good for a dead horse, doesn’t he?” 

It’s the same way with cows. Whenever we are out checking for newborn calves, I always get a glimpse of the grim reaper. 

I remember the time we were out riding and we spotted a cow through the binoculars with a calf hanging halfway out of her rear end. Neither the cow or the calf were moving. The grass was waving over the pair, and I just knew they were in the clutches of St. Peter, not the Sandman.

“Sheʼs just resting between contractions,” suggested my wife looking through the binoculars.

“No, trust me. I’m sure on this one,” I replied.

So we headed back to the house to call the tallow man. Funny thing is, when he arrived and we went out to get the cow and her dead calf, we couldn’t find their bodies. Bears must have carried them away, I suppose.

And then there was the time I was driving into town and I saw a dead bull in my neighbor’s front field. Being the good neighbor I am, I called my neighbor to inform him of the passing of his expensive registered Angus herd bull. 

But when I dialed my neighbor’s number, his recorded message indicated he was trying to enjoy a much deserved vacation on the islands, so I naturally just left a message on his recorder saying the bull he had just paid $15,000 for had passed on to the great never-never land.

How was I supposed to know the bull slept with all four legs in the air? I sure hope it didn’t ruin his vacation coming home four days early.

This habit of mine of thinking everything is dead, when in fact the animals in question merely have a sleeping disorder, is causing my wife to stay awake at night. 

“Why can’t you ever go to sleep before me?” I asked her last night as she lay tossing and turning.

“Because I’m afraid if you look over and see me with my eyes closed you’ll have me buried in the bone pile before I even wake up,” she said.