Randy: "My friend up at the Double Bar used to pay me in bullets to
pick off the gophers up his way. But them bullets got too expensive."
FYI: Randy's about 35. (He's shown with his dog, Chip.)
Flo: "I run 'em down with my car. You outta hear 'em go splat." She's
79. (She's shown with her dog, Duggan.
The two of them laugh. And rock back, Randy on a bench and Flo at the
picnic table at the Bozeman (MT) Dog Park off Haggerty Lane.
OK. I am grossed out. Inwardly horrified they find joy in brutally
killing an animal. Oblivious to my disdain, Flo and Randy keep
laughing, all the while pointing at something. Courteously (OK,
prudishly), I tilt my head to see what's what.
I let out an unexpected "HA!"
My lovely Standard Poodle Jacob has his face smashed into a gopher
hole and is digging furiously with his front two feet, snorting the
dirt out his nose. Chip, a bird dog, is likewise engaged. Magpies
line the fence like cheerleaders, cackling to goad them on.
HA! HA! I can't help it. It's comical. The Gulliver-sized dogs think
they can squeeze into Lilliputian holes. They look so funny with
their butts stuck up in the air, their tails announcing their joy,
and their heads thrust down those holes like ostriches.
I can laugh because after all, there's NO WAY the dogs can hit their
"Why just last week Chip got three of 'em," Randy says. "Had 'em all
ate up by the time I got there."
Please, please, please, God, don't let Jacob catch a gopher.
He doesn't. And Chip doesn't. The magpies disperse.
Thank you, God.