Gus, book lover 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...