As soon as I mentioned the waves of famished fish eagerly casting themselves in the path of anything Olive, I knew I’d overstepped the boundaries of both physics or logic and brought unwanted voodoo magic into the mix.
Fishing being a simple exercise in Chaos theory most days, but if you promise anyone anything about the day in advance of the reality, you’ve hexed yourself completely, and Einstein and all his theories no longer matter.
And we fall for this ritual time and time again, simply because most of the retelling is done Monday at work – and any sharp pain as the pin is passed through the doll is assumed to be lunchtime gas or that second donut …
… so we delight in stretching truth or predicting how well we’d do if we all skipped work – and the curse wears off by the subsequent weekend, with us none the wiser to all that dark evil we’ve conjured.
Naturally, I mention to TravelWriter how me and his Dog, which is no longer his Dog as it ignores him completely, have been faring and how he might want to hone his skills on some aggressively eating fish – and I have to listen to how much better the guides were as they rowed him through most of Colorado, versus the fart bar and lukewarm bottled water I’m serving on my stinky little creek …
And if that’s not enough he adds insult to injury by snapping my profile – which suggests the 26 pounds of lard I’ve removed from my frame through Herculean husbanding of calories, would be best served by another 26 pounds of lard yet to go …
Note my ever-present shadow, rooted to my side in case I need to be defended against hamburgers, whose recent discovery that not every home insists on dry kibble, where weekends can be woodsy adventure versus shackled to the garage, and in better homes Taco Bell is served on fine china even …
… and while fishing was off compared to the last couple of outings, we still got bit regular, just not regular enough to make the occasion memorable enough to brag come Monday morning.
Outside of swarms of small Pikeminnow on #20 dries, whose unwelcome hex will have been voided by my next visit to the creek.
While much has been made about all the fish we released, it’s what we kept that makes all this exercise worth while.
Me and Dogbert played along until our fellow angler turned his back and we made off with a goodly assortment of plunder. Walnuts, pears, persimmons, and fresh chard lend precious vitamins to any meal, especially the greasy, leaden variety I’d promised to preserve canine loyalties.
As the Little Stinking is clearly not a trout stream, Singlebarbed’s bass fisherman profile rounds out the picture perfectly.
Not to mention that “other guy’s” posterior pose.
Or, given his poor pole prowess, that poseur’s posterior.
That dog looks just perfect for you, I wouldn’t return him.
I would ask for doggie support payments though.
PS That Free Range dubbing is excellent!
Pish-posh! A Jovian physic such as yours does not need to be downplayed….and that wack-job Heeler looks to be having a good time,too, as a fishing pooch
Funny you should mention the Heeler because Keith owned one for many years. It’s name was Extra Income and was capable of some interesting tricks. Unfortunately, the dog was lost due to a shotgun “accident” at Metz farms while performing a trick.
That is pretty decent foraging.
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