Don’t let anyone ever tell you all dogs are the same. My daddy used to tell me that, and I believed him … until last night.
Here’s how it happened…
Ol’ Joe Appleton and me got to drinking down at the Thirsty Turtle Saloon in the afternoon, and after a few whiskies, he started flapping his gums.
Seems there’s this new stagecoach driver who stops next to the river under the old oak tree at Barnham’s Grove to fetch some cold water every single evening.
And when he does, anyone at all could walk up to the wagon and pilfer the daily deliveries.
Easy pickins, Joe says.
By that time, both of us were good and snockered, and I sure liked the sound of some easy money.
So Joe and me headed down to the river and set up camp on a little hill just across the way from the big oak. Joe brought his mutt, Roger, with him as usual, and the three of us sprawled out in the grass.
Well, the evening was warm, and Roger curled up real close to me -- before I knew it, I was asleep. When I woke up, it was nearly dark, and I could see Roger was rooting around down by the tree.
I tore off toward the pooch, worried he was going to blow the whole shebang!
Only … it wasn’t Roger at all.
It was some mean-looking mongrel who didn’t take kindly to my meddling. He gave me a good chase, teeth bared and growling, until I figured out I couldn’t outrun him. That’s when I went straight up this here oak tree.
That beastie kept yelping at me all night, long after Joe and Roger headed for home.
And the stagecoach driver?
Fella never did show up!
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