BECK N ME: On Pope patrol

Ratchet Arnold broke the morning silence at the barn.
“Pope Benedict is coming,” he said.
“Who did you say was coming?” asked Beck, my ole Missouri mule.
“The Pope is on his way,” said Ratchet.  “Look out the door.  He’s all dressed in white and he’s coming up the path.  Maybe his visit will bring us a blessing.”
“That can’t be the Pope,” Greg Sayers said.  “The white figure in the distance is riding a bike.  The Pope travels by private jet and a pope mobile.  Besides, he would’ve stopped at my store for gas.”
Beck snorted.  “Nobody has flown over the barn since Teddy Baumgardner wrecked his ultra light on Mabelle’s clothes line.”
“It has gotta be the Pope,” Ratchet said.  “Wished I’d have brushed my teeth so I could kiss his ring.”
“We’ll soon find out,” said the mule.  “That path ain’t the road to Mandalay where the flying fishes play.  It starts at the road and ends right here.”
“Hope it’s not the Pope,” W. B. Crockpot said.  “My joints hurt so I might not be able to genuflect.”
They presently discovered it was not the Pope.  Old Blue Rosenbloom, wearing bright white overalls, came into the barn.  He wasn’t smiling at all.
“We thought you were the Pope,” said Ratchet.
“Yeah,” said Coy McRoberts.  “You must have been shopping at Brooks Brothers to get those bright white overalls.”
“Didn’t intend for them to be white,” Old Blue said.  “I was helping Price Crigger paint a dog house.  He sneezed and dumped a bucket of white paint on me.  When I left home, these overalls were blue.  Don’t want people calling me Old White.”
Buster Blossom said, “Maybelle, my wife, says we shouldn’t judge a man by the color his overalls.”
“She’s a big woman,” mumbled No Fenders McGee.
A retired lawman and journalist, and published novelist, Jack Crosswell lives in Cripple Creek.