Bob Milford popped in for a cup the other day at the philosophy counter of the Mule Barn truck stop. Bob isnt usually seen in town during the day, as hes manager of the big Diamond W spread, and there are lots of daylight things to do out that way.
As we worked our way through the usual topics: women, politics, laundry and welding, Bob said hes planning a spring turkey hunt.
We nodded, silently vowing to check our own camo clothes and slate turkey calls.
I sure hope this season goes better than last one, though, Bob said, sipping his coffee.
Didnt you get a turkey, Bob? asked Doc.
Well, yes and no, I guess you could say, Doc. Its just the way it happened that didnt turn out so well. You see, I was driving the stock truck out the highway .
What happened, Bob? asked Dud, finally.
Oh, this stupid turkey flew out of the woods and across the highway. That wasnt bad in itself, but there was this state trooper behind me, you know? I kept watching him to see if he thought I was doing something wrong. You know how it is. I checked my speed, made sure my seat belt was on real good. I kept looking in the rearview mirror at him, but even if I hadnt, I couldnt have stopped it.
He took another sip and looked up at us.
You know the headache rack on the stock truck? Well, that dumb turkey pulled up when he saw the truck, but he didnt clear that rack and smacked it hard. He went up and over and came right down through the windshield of that cop car. Smashed it all to pieces.
Bummer, said Dud, who tried to be a hippie once.
The worst part was, the trooper gave me a ticket for it! Bob said.
A ticket? For what?
Bob smiled. Flippin him the bird.
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