“Jesus Tom, this is going to make a hell of a story, I’ll flip you for the rights to tell it.”

“What story?”

“We caught 56 trout in an hour, one of which is likely a new state record, all on dry flies, without budging from the car – in my book, that’s a hell of a good yarn.”

Tom looks at me like he stepped in something distasteful, “Noob, how do you figure 56 fish?”

“Well, there was the 4 at the big rock, the dozen from that nice pool, 8 we did in that riffle above, 6 at the Falls, 8 at the Bridge, 3 while we were signing autographs, 8 at the Island, 14 while we were posing heroically for them sunbathers, and 5 just now… I make that 56.”

Shaking his head with disgust, Tom leans closer, “You haven’t learned a goddamn thing today have you? You can’t mention the fish from Rock X as I’m under a gag order from the Shasta County Guides Association, Riffle Y can’t be mentioned as a buddy told me about it, and the Falls was a trick I learned from Jimmy Reams, who’d have my ass if I mentioned it in print.”

“Ahh,” I says, “I get it, but we still have the fish from …”

“Nope, the Bridge is private property,  the “autograph” fish were planted, and the Island …” TC visibly shudders, ” … forget about the Island.”

“Likewise for the 14 fish we caught near the topless nubile’s, the L&T Nancy will turn six shades of purple and I’ll be mowing lawn for months if she finds out.”

“No problem Tom, we still have the dozen from the pool and the last 5, including that bruising 9lb Rainbow you just landed, you may want to save a chunk of that 8X in case the IGFA wants to see it..”

“Negative, that was ‘Old Drooler’ – the guide’s use him for tips – and I’d be a Laughingstock if he made the print media, last year they all chipped in and had the Mount Shasta dentist add a prosthetic lower jaw, as he’s been caught that many times … the last five were Redband trout, we can’t mention they exist.”

I start tearing the pages out of my notepad, “..so we didn’t catch anything?”

“Not a damn thing, kid.”

Seeing my consternation, TC relents, “Interview Wally the Wonderdog, he loves seeing his name in print.”

On cue, the big lab parks his arse on my foot looking up expectantly – big brown eyes without hint of intelligence saying, “No one ever pets me, ever..”

I recognize I’m being thrown a bone, as Wally is a neo-icon in the angling world – so I open to an untrammeled page in my notebook, “Wally, dry fly or nymph, which do you prefer?”

No one ever pets me, ever …

“Can I put you down for a ‘Yes?'”

The distant tinkle of the telephone interrupts the reverie, and as Tom Chandler charges up the staircase to answer – I’m thinking, don’t get mad – get even…

The car door’s open, and I start shoveling chow at Wally like he’s a muzzleloader; overly-warm greasy beef sticks – unwrapped, gone … yesterday’s banana, inhaled, Kiwi Lime yogurt cup from last season, vanished … stale cookies from yesterday – woofed, Turkey breast and a Hardy reel case, skarfed …

The steady “thud-thud” of the tail wag is starting to slow, and TC appears at the top of the stairs. “How’s the interview going?”

I’m masking my giggle by chewing on my pencil, “Great, we’re just about unwrap … er …wrapped up here… and lastly Wally, how does it feel to crap indiscriminately near all of the finest trout water in Northern California?”

You are my new best friend, can you rub my stomach …

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