“How come ’e was wearin’ a dress?”
Now disrobed, Father Tim strolled into the midst of the party in his favorite gray suit. “Let’s thank the good Lord for our loaves and fishes! Shall we wait for Clarence?”
“He wouldn’t want us to wait,” said Agnes. “I’m sure he’ll come along in a while.”
But Clarence didn’t come along.
“Senior dry food only,” said Blake Eddistoe. “This fella’s been living too high.”
“I figured it might come to this.”
“We need to get about seven pounds off his frame. Hip dysplasia is aggravated by weight gain, and of course the extra weight isn’t good for his heart. I believe you said he’s what, ten, eleven?”
“He was young when he came to me; I don’t know his age exactly, but yes, I figure eleven years.”
“More romps in the pasture wouldn’t hurt the old boy.”
“Wouldn’t hurt this old boy, either,” said the vicar, who hadn’t a clue where he’d find time to romp in a pasture.
“Adele’s been promoted,” said J.C. “You’ll read about it in th’ Muse tomorrow.”
He thought J.C. looked oddly dejected.
“Promoted to what?” asked Mule.
“From corporal to sergeant.”
“Congratulations!” said Father Tim. “We’re proud with you.”
J.C. ducked his head and fumbled with his overstuffed briefcase, which sat beside him on a dinette chair salvaged from a Mitford dumpster.
“Are they promotin’ her nine millimeter, too?” In Mule’s opinion, women shouldn’t be allowed to become police officers, much less tote heavy metal around in a holster.
“She’s not carryin’ a nine millimeter anymore,” snapped J.C. “She’s carryin’ a forty-caliber H and K.”
“You don’t have t’ bite my head off.”
“So what else is new?” asked Percy.
“Gene Bolick’s not doing so hot,” said J.C. “Th’ tumor’s too deep in there to operate, and the medication’s not working like it should.”
Mule peered into his lunch sack. “Uh oh. What in th’ dickens ...”
“Don’t even start that mess,” said Percy. “I don’t want t’ hear it.” Percy unwrapped the foil from his wedge of lasagna, and removed a plastic fork from his shirt pocket.
“Lasagna!” marveled Mule, peering over the top of his glasses. “What’d you bring?” he asked Father Tim.
“Chicken sandwich on whole wheat with low-fat mayo and a couple of bread and butter pickles.”
Mule looked into the recesses of his paper bag and sighed deeply.
“We thank the Lord for this nourishment!” said Father Tim.
“Amen!” Percy forthwith hammered down on last night’s leftovers. “Lew needs to get ’im a microwave in this place. Hey, Lew, why don’t you put in a microwave?”
Lew walked in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Put in your own bloomin’ microwave. I ain’t runnin’ a restaurant, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Lookit,” said Percy, “we buy drinks, we buy Nabs, we fill up with gas an’ whatnot—it’d be an investment in keepin’ us as reg’lars.”
“Yeah, well, these turkeys was all reg’lars up at your place, an’ look what happened, you went out of b’iness!”
Everybody had a good laugh, except J.C., who was staring at his unopened cup of yogurt.
“Thanks again for the Christmas pickles, Lew,” said Father Tim. “I believe this is the recipe that inspired Earlene to kiss you on the mouth when you won the blue ribbon.”
Lew blushed. “Yessir, that’s th’ recipe, all right.”
“When is Earlene moving down to Mitford?”
“September!” said Lew. “Lock, stock, and barrel.”
“An’ don’t
Now disrobed, Father Tim strolled into the midst of the party in his favorite gray suit. “Let’s thank the good Lord for our loaves and fishes! Shall we wait for Clarence?”
“He wouldn’t want us to wait,” said Agnes. “I’m sure he’ll come along in a while.”
But Clarence didn’t come along.
“Senior dry food only,” said Blake Eddistoe. “This fella’s been living too high.”
“I figured it might come to this.”
“We need to get about seven pounds off his frame. Hip dysplasia is aggravated by weight gain, and of course the extra weight isn’t good for his heart. I believe you said he’s what, ten, eleven?”
“He was young when he came to me; I don’t know his age exactly, but yes, I figure eleven years.”
“More romps in the pasture wouldn’t hurt the old boy.”
“Wouldn’t hurt this old boy, either,” said the vicar, who hadn’t a clue where he’d find time to romp in a pasture.
“Adele’s been promoted,” said J.C. “You’ll read about it in th’ Muse tomorrow.”
He thought J.C. looked oddly dejected.
“Promoted to what?” asked Mule.
“From corporal to sergeant.”
“Congratulations!” said Father Tim. “We’re proud with you.”
J.C. ducked his head and fumbled with his overstuffed briefcase, which sat beside him on a dinette chair salvaged from a Mitford dumpster.
“Are they promotin’ her nine millimeter, too?” In Mule’s opinion, women shouldn’t be allowed to become police officers, much less tote heavy metal around in a holster.
“She’s not carryin’ a nine millimeter anymore,” snapped J.C. “She’s carryin’ a forty-caliber H and K.”
“You don’t have t’ bite my head off.”
“So what else is new?” asked Percy.
“Gene Bolick’s not doing so hot,” said J.C. “Th’ tumor’s too deep in there to operate, and the medication’s not working like it should.”
Mule peered into his lunch sack. “Uh oh. What in th’ dickens ...”
“Don’t even start that mess,” said Percy. “I don’t want t’ hear it.” Percy unwrapped the foil from his wedge of lasagna, and removed a plastic fork from his shirt pocket.
“Lasagna!” marveled Mule, peering over the top of his glasses. “What’d you bring?” he asked Father Tim.
“Chicken sandwich on whole wheat with low-fat mayo and a couple of bread and butter pickles.”
Mule looked into the recesses of his paper bag and sighed deeply.
“We thank the Lord for this nourishment!” said Father Tim.
“Amen!” Percy forthwith hammered down on last night’s leftovers. “Lew needs to get ’im a microwave in this place. Hey, Lew, why don’t you put in a microwave?”
Lew walked in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Put in your own bloomin’ microwave. I ain’t runnin’ a restaurant, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Lookit,” said Percy, “we buy drinks, we buy Nabs, we fill up with gas an’ whatnot—it’d be an investment in keepin’ us as reg’lars.”
“Yeah, well, these turkeys was all reg’lars up at your place, an’ look what happened, you went out of b’iness!”
Everybody had a good laugh, except J.C., who was staring at his unopened cup of yogurt.
“Thanks again for the Christmas pickles, Lew,” said Father Tim. “I believe this is the recipe that inspired Earlene to kiss you on the mouth when you won the blue ribbon.”
Lew blushed. “Yessir, that’s th’ recipe, all right.”
“When is Earlene moving down to Mitford?”
“September!” said Lew. “Lock, stock, and barrel.”
“An’ don’t
Similar Books
