South of Chapel Hill, where James Taylor once wandered the countryside strumming a six-string, there was a small farm. And it’s on this farm that Larry and I had been busting our humps for almost a week–burying bones, fetching sticks, digging holes under fences, and generally running the place under the supervision of Cookie, the farm owner’s dog. Cookie’s wife, who we called Cookie’s wife, lived on the farm, too. A pure breed, that’s what she was–Shih Tzu, I believe. And boy was she a looker…with the prettiest, softest, longest coat a dog ever did have.
I mention this, because Larry always had a problem with soft things and his need to rub against them. Matter of fact, we ended up in North Carolina on account of Larry’s love of soft coats and a certain poodle he encountered a month or so before all this. Larry’s a dumb dog, but sweet as Hell–mutt, cur, everydog.
When Larry did what he done to Cookie’s wife, it was an accident. He wasn’t sitting on her out of any evil inside of him; he just wanted to feel her soft coat.
But when the mob of dogs formed, there was no stopping them. So, I took Larry out in to the woods, asked him to tell me about his favorite soft things, and did what I had to do.
(Better than the original, huh? I know, I know…it’s a gift.)