Dedication | Table of Contents | Civic Responsibility


There is this friend of mine, I meet down in the woods all the time. He's a clown. I call him Frank Furt. I skip the last name, being a four letter name, and you've got watch those things. Any how, he's a clown.

We meet out there in the big space between the trees. I give Frank this good joke of mine, it's really clever. Frank comes back with this corny joke. Never did see anything funny about it, but he looks so dopey going through this corn every time, I just have laugh. Then the fun begins.

I make circles all around him. He can't run. Doesn't have any legs. He looks so funny standing there on his stomach, barking and laughing "chicken feathers" in this sub-baritone bark of his. Doesn't even move. I do about a dozen circles, and there he is, just standing on his stomach, laughing and barking. He makes me laugh, just thinking about him. That's a good friend for you. Wish you could meet him.

Then there's this real friend of mine. People call him Snuffy. His real name is George Washington...fine proud name...fine proud dog. He's got scars all over him and this fine stern bark.

About old G.W.. There are things you can't get over. Like the time G.W. took me in when I was all alone in the world. He invited me up on his porch, all casual. Let me watch him eat and even let me have some of his water. From then on things cheered up for me, and I move in next door.

As if that hadn't been enough, old G.W. volunteered to keep patrol on my new yard. He did, too, up until the time he moved away. No strange characters or Undesirables ever cam in my yart without getting the old rush from G.W. Matter of fact, he's already moved a couple of Undesirables out of my house. These two particular ones were the kind who plug themselves in with that machine and go roaring around, hanging on to the back of this contraption machine.
Many's the time I've seen old G.W., chasing the policewoman down the street. All he has to do is look at her and she's off. Wonderful way to be. Not even afraid of people with clubs. Even goes off in the paddy-wagon all cassual and fine. Grand friend. Comes back to see me a couple of times a week. He says he wants to check on his old patrol, and its only a twelve mile jaunt.

There are a couple of little friends I have too. I used to bring them up. People call one of them Tar-Baby, but I call him Felix. Felix is such an earnest, creative sounding name. Felix is right in there, learning how to run things. He works on newspapers. He picks them up, all scattered around in front of all the houses, and takes them to his house, where he makes neat mush-balls out of them. He lives at Mrs. Taylor's Bun House. A lot of people come to eat dinner at her house every night, and they drive off leaving their buns for us. Well, Felix calls us out every morning before it's light, and as soon as we can make it, we all go over to the trash club we have behind the Bun House. Buns every morning and sometimes lard.

The other little dog, I brought up, is called Sneakers by people. I call her Little Mother Mary. Poor thing. She tells me she has the Wiggling-Dropsy. I tell her that just couldn't happen to her. I'm awfully glad I gave her such a holy name, anyway. Poor thing waddles around, all sober.

We have a lot of easy-come-easy-go friends too. There's a twerpy dog next door, forever making cracks and diving through the hedge with bones he's stolen. People call him George. Spike does well enough as a name, for him. Couple of dead-end kids up the block who live with a cat. Couple of dogs who pull a nice lady on a leash by every morning. Oh we've got plenty of associations. Associations are fine, but I like friends best.

Dedication | Table of Contents | Civic Responsibility