to make coffee. I loved this time of day best, before the world woke up and aggravation wound its way to my door. The pot dripped slowly and the air was filled with the rich smells of coffee from somewhere in the mountains of South America. I breathed deeply and told myself that despite my complaints, I was still a very lucky man.
It was time to get in my truck and go down the road to the mailbox to collect the morning papers.
Goober and Peanut were sleeping in their pen outside, but when they sensed my approach they roused, yawned, and began to bark.
“Shhh! Calm down, boys! Everyone’s asleep!” I opened the gate and let them out. “You boys want to fish this morning? What do y’all say we go get us some bass?” I scratched them behind the ears and gave them each a dog biscuit. “Come on, get in the truck.”
Goober and Peanut lived outside most of the time because they loved to roll around in dead things and Valerie said they reeked. They did, but not all the time. I would throw them in the river when they got muddy. Every so often I would slip Mickey twenty dollars to give them a real bath with dog shampoo. Wouldn’t you know, as soon as they were clean, they would find something to roll around in again, like a decomposing skunk, and we would have to pour gallons of tomato juice all over then to kill the stench. Then we would toss them back in the Wappoo. A lot of people might say that dogs were too much trouble, but this was probably the only thing I had in common with Joanie McGee—love of animals. I loved my dogs. I sneakedthem into the kitchen all the time, where they settled under the table by my feet while I read the paper.
Goober and Peanut—which, to the uninitiated and to the dictionary, meant the same thing—were two of the most optimistic dogs I had ever owned. They were always happy to see me. Always. And they were happy simply to be in my company, whether it was riding in the cab or the back of my truck or sitting on the boat while I fished. Goober was six years old, Peanut was eight, and they had never been on a leash, except to visit the vet for an annual checkup. So when they saw the leash in my hand, a little bit of running around ensued in order to get them in the truck. They were smart fellows.
I cranked up my white Ford truck, which also needed a wash, and we rolled down the avenue of miniature live oaks toward the street. I would be dead and buried for a hundred years before those trees would look like they should. Every time I passed them, skinny, wimpy things that they were, I was reminded that Valerie thought she and I were building something from Gone With the Wind . I had planted fast-growing pines in between them to play down their scrawniness, and I planned to cut those down at some future time when the live oaks grew to a respectable size. I had to tip my hat to Valerie’s fantasy as she did to my practicality.
So it had become a habit to rise, set up the coffee, liberate my dogs, and go for a quick ride. Once, I had offered to pay a premium to the delivery boy to bring the papers up the drive, but he wasn’t interested, saying if he did that for everyone, he’d have to cut his route in half, as many of the neighboring properties were set back as much as a mile from the road. He was right, of course.
Shortly after seven, as I was finishing up my third cup of coffee, and thanking the good Lord my name wasn’t in the obituary pages, there was a rap on my kitchen door. The dogs got up with me and there was Mickey on the other side of the glass window. Goober andPeanut began to wag their tails. The advent of Mickey meant fun just might be on the agenda.
“I wanted to come over earlier,” he said, giving the boys a scratch and a pat on their rumps. “Mom said don’t do it. She said everybody needs a little time in the morning to get their motor going.”
“Your mom is a very astute woman. Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, sir. Four Eggos, a glass of orange juice, and
It was time to get in my truck and go down the road to the mailbox to collect the morning papers.
Goober and Peanut were sleeping in their pen outside, but when they sensed my approach they roused, yawned, and began to bark.
“Shhh! Calm down, boys! Everyone’s asleep!” I opened the gate and let them out. “You boys want to fish this morning? What do y’all say we go get us some bass?” I scratched them behind the ears and gave them each a dog biscuit. “Come on, get in the truck.”
Goober and Peanut lived outside most of the time because they loved to roll around in dead things and Valerie said they reeked. They did, but not all the time. I would throw them in the river when they got muddy. Every so often I would slip Mickey twenty dollars to give them a real bath with dog shampoo. Wouldn’t you know, as soon as they were clean, they would find something to roll around in again, like a decomposing skunk, and we would have to pour gallons of tomato juice all over then to kill the stench. Then we would toss them back in the Wappoo. A lot of people might say that dogs were too much trouble, but this was probably the only thing I had in common with Joanie McGee—love of animals. I loved my dogs. I sneakedthem into the kitchen all the time, where they settled under the table by my feet while I read the paper.
Goober and Peanut—which, to the uninitiated and to the dictionary, meant the same thing—were two of the most optimistic dogs I had ever owned. They were always happy to see me. Always. And they were happy simply to be in my company, whether it was riding in the cab or the back of my truck or sitting on the boat while I fished. Goober was six years old, Peanut was eight, and they had never been on a leash, except to visit the vet for an annual checkup. So when they saw the leash in my hand, a little bit of running around ensued in order to get them in the truck. They were smart fellows.
I cranked up my white Ford truck, which also needed a wash, and we rolled down the avenue of miniature live oaks toward the street. I would be dead and buried for a hundred years before those trees would look like they should. Every time I passed them, skinny, wimpy things that they were, I was reminded that Valerie thought she and I were building something from Gone With the Wind . I had planted fast-growing pines in between them to play down their scrawniness, and I planned to cut those down at some future time when the live oaks grew to a respectable size. I had to tip my hat to Valerie’s fantasy as she did to my practicality.
So it had become a habit to rise, set up the coffee, liberate my dogs, and go for a quick ride. Once, I had offered to pay a premium to the delivery boy to bring the papers up the drive, but he wasn’t interested, saying if he did that for everyone, he’d have to cut his route in half, as many of the neighboring properties were set back as much as a mile from the road. He was right, of course.
Shortly after seven, as I was finishing up my third cup of coffee, and thanking the good Lord my name wasn’t in the obituary pages, there was a rap on my kitchen door. The dogs got up with me and there was Mickey on the other side of the glass window. Goober andPeanut began to wag their tails. The advent of Mickey meant fun just might be on the agenda.
“I wanted to come over earlier,” he said, giving the boys a scratch and a pat on their rumps. “Mom said don’t do it. She said everybody needs a little time in the morning to get their motor going.”
“Your mom is a very astute woman. Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, sir. Four Eggos, a glass of orange juice, and
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