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"Good Ole Boy"

Jerry and I trudged through the field, carrying the sack that suddenly was getting quite heavy. I stopped for a second, dropping the burden.

"Hold up, Jerry. I need a break." I lit a cigarette, enjoying the taste.

"Aw c'mon, Joe. This ain't getting any lighter. We got a full mile yet before we get there."

"Yeah, just a minute. I need just another minute."

"You know, he'd want you to quit that smoking. He always left the house when you lit up."

"Yeah, the little turd. He sure could make a statement without saying a word."

"I think that's what I liked the most about Bubba. He sure could let you know what he was thinking. Kind of refreshing in a way. No questions when he was around. If he didn't like you, you knew it. If he took a fancy to you, he wouldn't leave you alone."

"Yeah, kind of going to miss the old boy."

We picked up our burden and continued on.

Finally we reached the final resting place for Bubba, a meadow near the base of a big hill.
We let down the sack and got the small shovel from the backpack. We dug a hole and pushed in the sack.

"I guess a few words are in order."

"You're right, Joe. He sure was a good ole boy. I am going to miss his ugly puss."

"To Bubba, the best friend a man ever had. I will miss you, buddy."

"Amen. I'll miss you too, Bubba. It won't be the same around here without you."

We broke out the flask and had a drink to Bubba, hunting dog extraordinaire.

As if on cue, several grouse took flight in front of us. We kind of think that was a tribute to Bubba, kind of a 21 gun salute.

Learn more about this author, Norma Trent.
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