Last Full Measure
As we pulled out of the abandoned housing development I picked up that scent again and started barking.
“Yeah, I know,” Bernie said. “I don’t want to go to Vegas either.”
We were going to Vegas? Was that why I was barking? No. It was the scent. I barked some more.
“Easy, boy,” said Bernie. He glanced over at me. “Hungry, by any chance?”
Actually, I was. I stopped barking, began thinking of different kinds of food. What a world, just chock full of different kinds of food, although chalk itself turned out not to be food, as I’d discovered once, and then again, and maybe a few more times.
Soon we parked at a convenience store. Bernie went in and got milk bones for me and a roast beef sandwich for him. And part of it for me, when it ended up he couldn’t finish, or something liked that. “I see the look in your eye,” Bernie said. Roast beef: what can I say?
We drove to Vegas. Bernie was very quiet and a bit sad. That doesn’t happen often. I squeezed a little closer to him. He gave me a pat. “Memorial Day, Chet,” he said.
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