George Little: The hunting dogs can't wait and I can't either
31.12.69
I don’t conscious how they know. But they do.
Tomorrow morning, Mickey and Toby will be at the gate with their ears and tails up in luxurious anticipation. Then they will start howling as if Cruella De Vil and her henchmen were backing up the Duesenberg. The neighbors will about they are being tortured.
In their Brittany minds, they are. The first Saturday in November is the first day of the upland hunting period. They know what day it is, and no matter how fast I get them into the truck, it is not fast enough.
As soon as they’re in the dog box and the tailgate latches, they are joyous guys. By the time I head down the driveway, Tony will be on his way to the customary assignation spot. Big John will be there already, staring at the Eastern horizon, trying to plug the sun up in the sky a little faster. Tony will arrive a minute early. He knows, as we all do, that Buckwheat is successful to miss the mark by one cup of convenience store coffee.
No need to get too vehement during the wait. When he eventually arrives, Buckwheat will start dragging clothes and furnishings out of his truck, looking like someone who has made the spur of the moment decision to run away from national.
Source: Leavenworth Times