Dear Mister Ed

I reckon you dont hang out that much with old timers Darroll, leastwise not yet. But yer clock is tickin’ like the rest of us.

Still, its probly come to yer attenshun that once folks get a bit long in the tooth, they get gooey-eyed bytimes over the good old days.

Geez I jest read that last part again and somethink ockurred to me.

Why do they say yer gettin’ long in the tooth, when like as not yer startin’ to run short of the dang things?

Anyways that aint the point of what I’m tryin’ to say.

I told you some time back how Maisy desided to lay in some organnical chickins. And also how Eva surprized us all by gettin’ a little Yorkshere Terror dog fer Unkle Walts birthday.

Now I wanta to tell you a heart warmin’ story of piece and good will, how Brutus fergot all about bein’ a dog and took them little cluckers under his wing like they was his own kin.

Thats the story I wanta tell you, but that aint how its been. What its reely been is total panda monium.

The afternoon the birds arrive Brutus is takin’ a nap in Walts lap, whose takin’ a nap of his own.

He wakes up jest in time to heed the urjint call of nachur. So does Brutus.

But the minnit Walt opens the door, the dogs fergets all about doin’ his bizness and lites off acrost the yard like his tale is afire.

A split of a second later, theres Brutus eye-ball to eye-ball with three dozzen Road Island Reds the same size he is, and nothin’ in between but chickin wire.

The dog is yappin’ and the hens is flappin’ and Maisys gettin’ mad as a wet hen, cussin’ up a storm and makin’ near as much racket as the bunch of ’em.

Thats when I hear Unkle Walt, whose standin’ on the back stoop takin’ it all in. He dont say but the one word, but thats all it takes to get me bent over laffin’.

“Scrambled” he says.

See, when I was 4 and Walt was 16 or thereabouts, he had this old brown mutt called Amber who liked nothin’ better than to put the run on Daddys chickins.

The more upset the chickins got, the more I wud cry and the more Walt wud laff. Till Daddy got in on the act.

“Walter Doherty” he wud holler “you keep that dog away from my hens. I sware to God, evry time she comes near they lay scrambled eggs fer the next three days.”

Now that was back in ’41, but Walt knew I wud remember like it was yesterday.

Like the time the two of us got chased by Alex the Gander and ended up stem to gudjin in goose grease, but not the kind in the pan when yer goose is cooked.

But thats a story fer some other time. O, the good old days.

Yer pal,

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