“Here’s something from Black River Falls, Wisconsin,” Bernie says. “I think that’s near LaCrosse.” I’m no wiser. It’s Sunday, Elvis gospel is on XM/Sirius, and I’m waiting for Bernie to make sausages. He spoke of sausages last night and they’ve been on my mind ever since, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get to the stove. Instead he’s sipping coffee and tapping away at the keyboard.
“Seems like a kid fell through ice into a pond at a development called Lallapalooza Estates.” Lallapalooza Estates? Is Bernie making this up? “He had a dog with him – Sye, an Irish setter – and Sye went in after him. The kid somehow scrambled out, and then the fire department came and rescued Sye.” Whew! “Ice is dangerous, Chet. Remember that.”
Okay. But we don’t have ice here in the Valley. Or ponds. I thump my tail in a way that means: Sausages! Now!
Bernie sips his coffee, taps away at his machine.
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