“If Izzy Franklin had
smaller feet, then Lonny Johnson would probably be in jail,”
crowed Hooter.
He could barely make it through a sentence without collapsing in
laughter as he related how Lonnie broke in two earlier that day,
charging around his feed store counter after a customer.
“All because this
poor sap, a paying customer mind you, had the audacity to ask
Lonnie if he carried natural dog food,” bleated Hooter. “It was
way worse than a colt stepping on a rattle snake. Calm as you
please one second, then blam!”
“Ain’t funny,” said
Lonnie through clenched teeth. “None of it.”
Links and
Lengths of Pethood
A fellow by the name of Reginald Cooper was the unfortunate
victim or instigator depending on your point of view.
Izzy, sitting on a
sawhorse and leafing through the latest issue of Cattle Today,
is what saved the man from a world-class whuppin’. By his own
admission, Izzy didn’t even know someone else was in the store
until Lonnie tripped over his feet, cursing on his way to the
floor.
Hooter happened to
be there at the time, sifting through Lonnie’s bolt barrel for
the last nut needed to complete a project. He’d been listening
with amusement to the conversation.
“What would you
recommend as the optimum protein component and level for a
Yorkshire?” asked Reginald. He didn’t look at all like a pig
feeder, not even an investor type, what with his Bermuda shorts
and alligator skin loafers.
“How much are you
wanting them to gain and by when?” Lonnie asked.
“I beg your
pardon?”
“How much are you
wanting them to gain? Are these fair pigs or freezer pigs?”
“Oh, I see,”
Reginald had said kindly. “Oh, that is rich. No, you see I’m
looking for a ration for Bartholomew, he’s my Yorkshire terrier.
I take it there must be a pig breed of a similar name.”
Even from the back
of the store Hooter could see Lonnie begin to glow.
“Well sir, I carry
dog food, too,” said Lonnie, pointing out the location as he
rifled a stream of Mail Pouch into the coffee can by the door.
“In fact, like all of the other feed here, I mix it myself; none
of those brands you get at them city stores.”
Reginald looked
relieved. “That’s precisely why I’m here. I’m from Lubbock, you
see. I teach at the university. In the wake of this Chinese
wheat gluten fiasco I’ve searched high and low for a ration with
more assurance.”
Both Hooter and
Lonnie figured, as would Izzy if he’d been paying attention,
that Reginald wouldn’t know gluten from a PTO shaft, but he did
know headlines.
“Like I said, I’ve
got dog food. Folks around here have bought it for years,” said
Lonnie.
“Actually,”
continued Reginald as if he hadn’t heard, “I can’t help but
think adulterated gluten might have something to do with
Bartholomew’s lethargy. You know, he’s only 4, but he doesn’t
play much any more, and when he does it certainly seems to tax
his constitution.”
He looked at
Lonnie; Lonnie looked at him.
“Back to my
original query, if you’d be so kind, what would be the proper
protein content for his ration, and how does that compare to
what you offer?”
The muscles in
Lonnie’s jaw were now doing push-ups as he bit down on his chew.
“Well sir, you’ve told me what kind of dog he is and how old,
but I still need to know what he weighs. I assume you want to
maintain his weight.”
“Indeed.
Bartholomew is in excellent condition. I weigh him every week
and he’s up to 10 pounds. He’s never without. I keep food and
water in front of him at all times, plus the occasional treat,
of course.”
Hooter dropped a
bolt—probably the one he as searching for—as he stifled a laugh.
“Let me make sure I
understand,” said Lonnie. “You’ve got a Yorkshire Terrier. I’ve
never owned one, but I’ve seen them. They’re tan and blue and
stand under a foot tall. Is that right?”
“Quite so, but
you’re wrong about the height. They’re only about 9 inches. And,
I might add that Bartholomew is the product of championship
stock.”
Hooter could have
guessed what was coming next. Lonnie had no use for anyone who
misused a feed bucket, either out of intent or ignorance.
“Well sir, he could
be a world champion himself, but that dog of yours is not in
excellent condition,” announced Lonnie. “If that dog of yours is
9 inches tall and weighs 10 pounds, he’s fatter than a bowling
ball on steroids. It doesn’t much matter what the ration is if
you’re going to let him eat all he wants.”
“I beg your
pardon…”
“It’s not me you
need to asking forgiveness, it’s that dog. Nine inches and 10
pounds, that borders on abuse.”
“Now see here…”
began Reginald, and then altered his course. “To be fair,
Bartholomew’s doctor has suggested that we might need to
increase the exercise regimen. Though, I must say he wasn’t
quite as direct as you.”
Lonnie looked at
Reginald; Reginald looked at him.
“Indeed. Well,
might you at least tell me if this ration of yours is
all-natural?”
That’s when Lonnie
exploded, came for Reginald and tripped.
The Aftermath
Before Lonnie even hit the floor, Hooter was between him and the
flummoxed customer, like a champion bull fighter.
Give Izzy credit,
too. Once his concentration was broken he sensed what needed to
be done immediately: He ushered the still cursing feed store
proprietor into the warehouse.
“All I’m trying to
do is find the safest ration for my little one,” explained
Reginald.
“Don’t mind him,
he’s grumpy by nature,” explained Hooter. “And when it comes to
feed he’s temperamental, like an artist. You couldn’t know, but
asking him what you did was kind of like asking Da Vinci if he
thought a different shade of blue might be better, then
wondering if he had something besides a paint-by-number portrait
in stock.”
“But…”
“No offense, but
all things considered, you’d best be on your way. Izzy’s big,
but Lonnie’s faster than he looks.”
“But…”
“Oh and for what
it’s worth,” said Hooter as he ushered Reginald out the door.
“You might want to take what Lonnie said to heart.”
“You mean about not
feeding Bartholomew quite as robustly?”
“Yeah,” said Hooter
pulling the door closed. “Either that or buy a pig.” |
