Steve Horswell
Member
For your continued reading pleasure. From time to time I will post additional tales...SRH
Tales of the Old Crony---Showing The Wear
“She ain’t what she used to be,” he said all too matter-of-factly to suit me. “Her stomach protrudes, her rear-end has broadened, and she waddles like a duck. She’s really showing the wear.”
It’s always wrong to speak ill of a lady but he had gone far beyond that and had overstepped the bounds of decorum. Even worse, he had been speaking about my lady. Offended, I stiffened and wondered how best to restore her honor. Had it been anyone else I probably would have decked him right there and then. But he’s an old man and we had been friends for too long. Besides, even with twenty years on me, he’s tough, and it’s best not to start something you can’t finish.
My mind raced, thinking back to when I had first met the lady almost twelve years earlier. She had been a cute lass whose short, blonde hair had first caught my eye. As I had come to know her better, I discovered her cheerful disposition and unbridled energy. Oh, but she had been a dainty, nimble little thing in those days. I can still picture her lightly springing into the pickup and snuggling up to me as we drove away from her mother’s house for the last time. When we arrived at our home, I had easily carried her over the threshold. Alas, more than a decade had passed since then and we had gone the way of all flesh. Though still rankled by his slight, I relaxed a bit, realizing he had only spoken the obvious---indeed, the wear was showing.
Still, things might have gone poorly had she not chosen that moment to step between us. Finding no fault with his words, she licked the old man’s face and nosed his hand for attention. Wrinkling her ears, The Old Crony dug in his bag for the treats he always brought for her. Eyes keen and tail wagging, she sat patiently before him, awaiting the snacks.
On paper, Brandy was my Lab, but you wouldn’t know it when the aged waterfowler was present. Over the years, the two of them grew very close, even to the point that they exchange Christmas cards and gifts. Only after she had finished all his snacks did she pay any attention to me. She shuffled back to my end of the blind, circled three times, and, with a deep sigh, lay down on the rug at my feet. In a very short order she was fast asleep, her snores dueling with the wind. As she slept, the Old Crony and I spoke softly about her.
No longer either young or nimble, she had great difficulty getting around many days. Without help, she couldn’t get into or out of vehicles or boats. Her naps had increased in frequency and duration of late. Though always anxious to go, once in the blind she was content to sleep long and hard, waking only to the sound of a gun being fired or a candy bar being unwrapped. Occasionally, however, she would have a Renaissance Day. Alert and enthusiastic, she would sit statuesquely in the blind, intently watching for ducks and geese; her tail thumping and body quivering when any approached. Protectively, I no longer wanted her to hazard long, open-water retrieves, particularly in cold water. Often, I would wade out myself or, if it was too deep, load her into the boat so we could retrieve together.
Caught up in our reminiscing, we failed to notice the approach of a greenwing teal until it hovered over our decoys. By the time we gathered our wits, it had already started to make its escape. The Old Crony, always faster with a gun than I, downed the bird with his first barrel. It fell in the tall brush on the other side of the narrow gut where the decoys were set up. He waded across the channel while I marked where it dropped. Brandy roused herself. Unable to find it on his first pass, I directed him to where I had seen it fall but to no avail.
Taking in the situation, Brandy resignedly stood, stretched, and swam across the channel. I followed closely behind her, bringing up the rear. Once across, the old guy and I used our coats to mark the search area. Brandy aimlessly sniffed weeds along the shore as we cast fruitlessly back and forth in the area where we were positive the bird had fallen. I called for her come to come and help us but she ignored me. We were nearly ready to give up when the old man noticed Brandy seemed birdy. At that instant, she lunged into some brush fifty feet from where we were searching and emerged with a very lively duck in her mouth. Bringing the bird to us, she appeared very smug and pleased with herself, having given lie to our earlier remarks about her.
© All rights reserved. Steven R Horswell 2015
Tales of the Old Crony---Showing The Wear
“She ain’t what she used to be,” he said all too matter-of-factly to suit me. “Her stomach protrudes, her rear-end has broadened, and she waddles like a duck. She’s really showing the wear.”
It’s always wrong to speak ill of a lady but he had gone far beyond that and had overstepped the bounds of decorum. Even worse, he had been speaking about my lady. Offended, I stiffened and wondered how best to restore her honor. Had it been anyone else I probably would have decked him right there and then. But he’s an old man and we had been friends for too long. Besides, even with twenty years on me, he’s tough, and it’s best not to start something you can’t finish.
My mind raced, thinking back to when I had first met the lady almost twelve years earlier. She had been a cute lass whose short, blonde hair had first caught my eye. As I had come to know her better, I discovered her cheerful disposition and unbridled energy. Oh, but she had been a dainty, nimble little thing in those days. I can still picture her lightly springing into the pickup and snuggling up to me as we drove away from her mother’s house for the last time. When we arrived at our home, I had easily carried her over the threshold. Alas, more than a decade had passed since then and we had gone the way of all flesh. Though still rankled by his slight, I relaxed a bit, realizing he had only spoken the obvious---indeed, the wear was showing.
Still, things might have gone poorly had she not chosen that moment to step between us. Finding no fault with his words, she licked the old man’s face and nosed his hand for attention. Wrinkling her ears, The Old Crony dug in his bag for the treats he always brought for her. Eyes keen and tail wagging, she sat patiently before him, awaiting the snacks.
On paper, Brandy was my Lab, but you wouldn’t know it when the aged waterfowler was present. Over the years, the two of them grew very close, even to the point that they exchange Christmas cards and gifts. Only after she had finished all his snacks did she pay any attention to me. She shuffled back to my end of the blind, circled three times, and, with a deep sigh, lay down on the rug at my feet. In a very short order she was fast asleep, her snores dueling with the wind. As she slept, the Old Crony and I spoke softly about her.
No longer either young or nimble, she had great difficulty getting around many days. Without help, she couldn’t get into or out of vehicles or boats. Her naps had increased in frequency and duration of late. Though always anxious to go, once in the blind she was content to sleep long and hard, waking only to the sound of a gun being fired or a candy bar being unwrapped. Occasionally, however, she would have a Renaissance Day. Alert and enthusiastic, she would sit statuesquely in the blind, intently watching for ducks and geese; her tail thumping and body quivering when any approached. Protectively, I no longer wanted her to hazard long, open-water retrieves, particularly in cold water. Often, I would wade out myself or, if it was too deep, load her into the boat so we could retrieve together.
Caught up in our reminiscing, we failed to notice the approach of a greenwing teal until it hovered over our decoys. By the time we gathered our wits, it had already started to make its escape. The Old Crony, always faster with a gun than I, downed the bird with his first barrel. It fell in the tall brush on the other side of the narrow gut where the decoys were set up. He waded across the channel while I marked where it dropped. Brandy roused herself. Unable to find it on his first pass, I directed him to where I had seen it fall but to no avail.
Taking in the situation, Brandy resignedly stood, stretched, and swam across the channel. I followed closely behind her, bringing up the rear. Once across, the old guy and I used our coats to mark the search area. Brandy aimlessly sniffed weeds along the shore as we cast fruitlessly back and forth in the area where we were positive the bird had fallen. I called for her come to come and help us but she ignored me. We were nearly ready to give up when the old man noticed Brandy seemed birdy. At that instant, she lunged into some brush fifty feet from where we were searching and emerged with a very lively duck in her mouth. Bringing the bird to us, she appeared very smug and pleased with herself, having given lie to our earlier remarks about her.
© All rights reserved. Steven R Horswell 2015
Last edited:
