TGSR cont.

One early summer morning, the kind where it's still a bit cool but you can feel the heat simmering up for the rest of the day, Joey got out of bed (so he told me afterward) cause he heard his dog making a fearsome noise. He looked out his bedroom window and saw Buster, his ugly mutt of a dog, tearing into something.

Joey hurriedly put on some shorts and shoes and rushed outside to see what was the matter. By that time I was there too, since only the slowest of creatures is slower than Joey on a summer morning.

We both yelled at Buster--his black hair all a-bristling--to back off, but it took a kick or two before he released the furry thing he had in his mouth. By then it was too late. The thing, a mess of bloody squirrel fur, was dead.

Now, don't get me wrong here. We weren't two sissy kinda boys who thought that every single thing should be kept alive and that people should eat plants and such. No, back in those days there was no questions: men--even boys--ate meat.

And while we would often go on long walks with Buster and urge him to chase some varmint just for the hell of it, a cornered animal--at least a defenceless one--was a different thing altogether.

So we shouted, Joey kicked Buster, the dog dropped the squirrel, and the squirrel lay there, dead. We, dog and all, were panting from the excitement, even though we had been lollying about in dreams not ten minutes before. And there it was, dead. That kinda shook Joey and me, for Buster never used to catch things before. Maybe this time he had just gotten lucky.