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 We love agriculture, and it's part of living here
to see who buys what and rejoice in their good fortune, even if our
own grass is stressed to the limit by whatever varmint we're
currently feeding.
Or, it could be that we figure we've already lived
too long, and if the right horse or cow comes through there, and we
buy it, our wives will see to it that we don't suffer in agony for
untold years.
This weekly auction is a treasure house for our dogs. It's a dog's
day out, a chance to scrounge under the bleachers for dropped hot
dog portions and the occasional sweet bun crust. It's a chance for
them to get reacquainted with dog buddies and to check out any new
pickups in the parking lot whose tires have not yet been properly
baptized.
My coonhound loves it. She had done her munching, scrounging and
socializing and was curled up under my truck, waiting for me, as we
were getting ready to leave. Dud's blue heeler was flitting around
in the bed of his pickup truck, guarding against anything that might
deign to trespass. [to top of second
column] |
And Doc had a new dog, of
non-obvious parentage, on a leash, which meant he was not yet broken
in to sales barn etiquette. Once he got used to it, and had been
introduced to the other dogs, he'd fit right in and the leash would
be history.
"What kind of dog is that, Doc?" we asked.
"Why, he's an Egyptian shepherd."
"I never heard of an Egyptian shepherd. Does he work cattle?"
"Nope."
"What's he do?"
Doc grinned, "He makes pyramids in the back yard.
[Text from file received from
Slim Randles]
Brought to you by Dogsled: A True Tale of the North. Available on
Amazon.com.
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