“I took Duckworth to the
dog show up in the
city last weekend,” Dud said.
The other
members of the Mule Barn truck
stop’s world dilemma think tank and philosophy counter just
looked at him.
Doc put it gently.
“Dud, was this so he could
get some inspiration on looking good?”
Duckworth was a
medium-sized dog that found
Dud while Dud was walking and thinking about the novel he’s
writing. No one
answered the ad he put in the Valley Weekly Miracle, so he was
henceforth known
as Duckworth, for some reason Dud seemed to want to keep to
himself. To be
honest, Duckworth looked like he fell out of the ugly tree and
hit every branch
on the way down.
“No, I was going
to enter him in the dog
show,” Dud said. “Took him right up to the registration table
and tried to get
him in a class. The lady there looked at ol’ Duck and asked to
see his papers.”
Dud grinned. “I told
her they were back home
on the floor of the laundry room. She didn’t think it was
funny.”
Now Duckworth had been
introduced to the
other dogs in the group at the sale barn, as is the custom, and
Dud’s pals had
been hesitant to ask much about him. Duckworth looked like
something put
together by a committee with a sense of humor. Oh, he was a dog
… no doubt
about that. But what kind of dog was he? It made for interesting
coffee
speculation, that’s for sure.
“You know,” Dud said,
“Anita was against me
getting any kind of dog until Duckworth came along. When I
explained to her
that Duckworth was a bird dog … a duck dog, actually, and that
he’d help me
bring more birds home, she finally gave in.”
“He’s a bird dog?”
Steve said. “What kind?”
“Now that’s what that
dog show lady asked me,
you know? I had to explain to her about canardly terriers,
because she wasn’t
familiar with them.”
“Canar…”
“Canardly terriers,
you betcha,” Dud said,
grinning, “why, I’ll bet you canardly tell what kind of terrier
he is!”
-------
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