We bought a few acres in the
country but rented in town until we built our house. Boller, my good
cowdog and companion, stayed in the backyard but lived to go out to the
place.
He would know when I was
getting ready to leave. He’d wait by the front door vibrating like a bow
string. I’d tease him a little, then say, “Go get in the pickup.” I’d
open the door, and he’d streak across the grass and driveway, then
catapult into the back of the pickup.
One winter morning, I was
preparing to drive out and split some wood. Boller was tuned up and
ticking similar to a two-dollar watch. I peeked out the door when I
released him. We’d had an ice storm. The trees hung heavy with icicles,
and the concrete driveway was similar to a mirror. Boller shot across
the frozen grass, reached the driveway, set his hind legs to spring
skyward, hit the ice and slid similar to a statue of a dog praying,
directly into the side of the pickup.
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