The kid got in back of the station wagon with a girl named Tiffany. One of the men up front was his Uncle the other fella was a co-worker with the Uncle. Tiffany’s “dad” was the Co-worker.
“Watch that girl, she’ll be in your lap in a heartbeat, kiss you to death, and steal your do-nuts”.
“Well – “now” he tells me” , thought the kid, raising the box of do-nuts high over his head with this ‘girl’ all in his face and wriggling in his lap…only the glaze remained of a do-nut scarfed up.
Tiffany was a Boykin Spaniel.
“How come the name Tiffany?”, asked the kid. It was too early – dark thirty – to be exact to be told how as a pup the Co-workers’ wife’s engagement ring had been swallowed by a *certain* young pup. How one goes about retrieving such an item.
“Allright already!” the kid said. He put his hands on either side of Tiffany’s face and he looked into her eyes, whispered something only she could hear. Tiffany jumped to the back where the guns and gear laid, behaved herself, the kid tossed something back her way…
crunch, crunch, crunch…
The Uncle muffled a laugh. Co-worker checked the rearview mirror and Tiffany was being a perfect lady. “Huh? How’d he do that” he asked. “You really don’t want to know” the Uncle replied with a bit of a laugh.
Well the doves were flying between a farm pond and a timber line, the kid headed off; he had an idea where he wanted to set up. The men took their time, watching the dog and the kid ahead in the distance. Most likely the gentleman were recalling a time when that was them doing the same thing.
Well the proper thing was for a fella to NOT interfere with another man’s dog. The kid was taught that. Tiffany on the other had decided she would rather retrieve the kid’s birds than the older gentlemen’s.
Crunch…crunch…crunch…
The kid was using an Model 12 in 20 ga, like his Uncles, the Co-worker had a neat O/U that was right , well, awesome! The kid really wanted to shoot that gun - boy - being proper and not asking…begging one’s elders sure has its downsides.
It was getting hotter by the minute, we had chipped a piece ice and tossed in a coffee can for the Tiffany to drink from. We “men” shared the new fangled “Little Brown Jug” – insulated (whatever that meant) with a spout. The kid was used to the empty milk cartons, refilled with water, in quart and two quarts…he dribbled more than he drank from this new fangled 'jug'.
Three doves burst into range from nowhere, the guns were unloaded as we took water and ‘shot the bull”. Tiffany turned around and gave us that look that only a dog can give. “I can’t retrieve them if you don’t shoot them”.
The kid was using a canvas nail apron to hold shells. “Let me see that apron son” the Co worker asked, the kid took it off. “This here is what we call a shell pouch”, the kid admired the leather handiwork, something about a tournament and a date under the initials. Out of the tin bucket we had carried gear in he pulled out a green belt like the folks in the Army used, eyed the kid’s waist, fiddled with it and said “here try this”. The kid was grinning this pouch and belt set up was neat.
“Well since you have the pouch and shells for my gun, might as well shoot it…you won’t mind If I swap guns for a bit do you?
“Heck no…I mean no sir!...thank you sir”. The kid was too excited to get a sentence straight. He was shown how the gun worked and all ,He had shot guns like this…just not as fancy… dang them 28 ga shells were neat. He had shot 28 ga before…he liked the 28 ga a LOT!
The Uncle noted the stock was a bit long…”just go a little slower in mounting, keep eyes on the birds…it ain’t the gun, it’s up to the shooter”.
Well the kid missed on his first shot, the follow shot worked. Raised his head to see a hit…saw a miss instead. He took his seat again and waited. A pair came right at him he stayed seated…he waited…raised up and took the far bird first, kept “pulling through” and nailed the second”. One cannot put into words those kinds of feelings. Hard to tell tho’ who had the bigger chest the kid or the older men; still think it was the kid.
They stopped on the way in to eat at a country diner, Tiffany was on the screened in back porch on a leash…taking in the breeze from a Emerson fan. the kid went out to check on her...
crunch...crunch...crunch...
The kid fell asleep on the way home with Tiffany’s head in his lap. The co-worker found out the secret about Tiffany behaving for the kid, and wanting to retrieve his birds. He had pulled over to adjust some gear rattling in the back, noticed the oversized Khaki shirt the kid had worn with the oversized shirt pockets, over his gray T shirt. He was curious about the material used to make a homemade shooting patch, like the fella at the club wore.
The individually wrapped peppermint fell out of one the pockets.
Crunch…crunch…crunch…
“Watch that girl, she’ll be in your lap in a heartbeat, kiss you to death, and steal your do-nuts”.
“Well – “now” he tells me” , thought the kid, raising the box of do-nuts high over his head with this ‘girl’ all in his face and wriggling in his lap…only the glaze remained of a do-nut scarfed up.
Tiffany was a Boykin Spaniel.
“How come the name Tiffany?”, asked the kid. It was too early – dark thirty – to be exact to be told how as a pup the Co-workers’ wife’s engagement ring had been swallowed by a *certain* young pup. How one goes about retrieving such an item.
“Allright already!” the kid said. He put his hands on either side of Tiffany’s face and he looked into her eyes, whispered something only she could hear. Tiffany jumped to the back where the guns and gear laid, behaved herself, the kid tossed something back her way…
crunch, crunch, crunch…
The Uncle muffled a laugh. Co-worker checked the rearview mirror and Tiffany was being a perfect lady. “Huh? How’d he do that” he asked. “You really don’t want to know” the Uncle replied with a bit of a laugh.
Well the doves were flying between a farm pond and a timber line, the kid headed off; he had an idea where he wanted to set up. The men took their time, watching the dog and the kid ahead in the distance. Most likely the gentleman were recalling a time when that was them doing the same thing.
Well the proper thing was for a fella to NOT interfere with another man’s dog. The kid was taught that. Tiffany on the other had decided she would rather retrieve the kid’s birds than the older gentlemen’s.
Crunch…crunch…crunch…
The kid was using an Model 12 in 20 ga, like his Uncles, the Co-worker had a neat O/U that was right , well, awesome! The kid really wanted to shoot that gun - boy - being proper and not asking…begging one’s elders sure has its downsides.
It was getting hotter by the minute, we had chipped a piece ice and tossed in a coffee can for the Tiffany to drink from. We “men” shared the new fangled “Little Brown Jug” – insulated (whatever that meant) with a spout. The kid was used to the empty milk cartons, refilled with water, in quart and two quarts…he dribbled more than he drank from this new fangled 'jug'.
Three doves burst into range from nowhere, the guns were unloaded as we took water and ‘shot the bull”. Tiffany turned around and gave us that look that only a dog can give. “I can’t retrieve them if you don’t shoot them”.
The kid was using a canvas nail apron to hold shells. “Let me see that apron son” the Co worker asked, the kid took it off. “This here is what we call a shell pouch”, the kid admired the leather handiwork, something about a tournament and a date under the initials. Out of the tin bucket we had carried gear in he pulled out a green belt like the folks in the Army used, eyed the kid’s waist, fiddled with it and said “here try this”. The kid was grinning this pouch and belt set up was neat.
“Well since you have the pouch and shells for my gun, might as well shoot it…you won’t mind If I swap guns for a bit do you?
“Heck no…I mean no sir!...thank you sir”. The kid was too excited to get a sentence straight. He was shown how the gun worked and all ,He had shot guns like this…just not as fancy… dang them 28 ga shells were neat. He had shot 28 ga before…he liked the 28 ga a LOT!
The Uncle noted the stock was a bit long…”just go a little slower in mounting, keep eyes on the birds…it ain’t the gun, it’s up to the shooter”.
Well the kid missed on his first shot, the follow shot worked. Raised his head to see a hit…saw a miss instead. He took his seat again and waited. A pair came right at him he stayed seated…he waited…raised up and took the far bird first, kept “pulling through” and nailed the second”. One cannot put into words those kinds of feelings. Hard to tell tho’ who had the bigger chest the kid or the older men; still think it was the kid.
They stopped on the way in to eat at a country diner, Tiffany was on the screened in back porch on a leash…taking in the breeze from a Emerson fan. the kid went out to check on her...
crunch...crunch...crunch...
The kid fell asleep on the way home with Tiffany’s head in his lap. The co-worker found out the secret about Tiffany behaving for the kid, and wanting to retrieve his birds. He had pulled over to adjust some gear rattling in the back, noticed the oversized Khaki shirt the kid had worn with the oversized shirt pockets, over his gray T shirt. He was curious about the material used to make a homemade shooting patch, like the fella at the club wore.
The individually wrapped peppermint fell out of one the pockets.
Crunch…crunch…crunch…
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Hahaha, love it sm, I can almost see the look on the guys face.