A dog, a mutt if you will, the size of a pork roast, is eying a stick the length of Long Island.
Yours truly is watching while stretching against a tree.
His owner, off a ways, is busy picking up poop, bless his law abiding heart, searching for it amid the leaves as our canine hero examines the stick as if he’s about to take a measurement, going right to left, left to right.
Suddenly I hear, “Tom, come on Tom let’s go,” but Tom appears to be still contemplating.
Tom then backs up like a souped up Chevy before charging, headed straight for the middle, grabbing that stick evenly before trotting after his master, who doesn’t seem the least bit surprised.