Friday Freebie
In honor of my publisher's Best Seller Campaign and Friday I am for today only giving away the first chapter of my just released book. I will delete this post after today.. THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES - Chapter One
Most coming-of-age stories are fraught with symbolism, hiddenmetaphors, and a heaping mound of other literary devices. Not thisone. Not mine. You see, I came of age while working at a dustyTexas feedstore. A place where To Kill a Mockingbird involved atwelve-year-old and a BB gun. Of Mice and Men was a problemeasily solved with rat poison. And David Copperfield was nothingmore than a dude that made shit disappear.
In the spring of 1989, I was a rosy-cheeked boy of sixteen.Doyle Suggs was a twice-divorced, thirty-year-old high schooldropout. On the surface Doyle and I had little in common, yet hisinvolvement in my life changed me in drastic and dramatic ways.Doyle ran a feedstore in Amarillo, Texas. A joint called Pearl'sFeed and Seed. Working there provided me my first paying job,my first taste of how fun life could be, and … my first brush withreal danger.
Pearl's Feed and Seed was named after Doyle's mother.Originally she ran the place, but by the time I hired on, Pearl hadlong since hightailed it back to her ancestral home in Oklahoma.Nearly all of Doyle's family hailed from the same ruralOklahoma town. A town famous for hosting one of the world'slargest rattlesnake roundups. You have to wonder about an entiretown that considers it high entertainment to track down and capturevast quantities of poisonous snakes. I don't know how the practicegot started, but let's hope it was a group of teenage boys that firsthit upon that idea, since it's a proven fact pubescent males are theleast intelligent demographic of human beings. A demographic Isolidly belonged to when I hired on at the feedstore.
Even with the ignorance of youth working against us, neitherI, nor any of my high school buddies made a habit of seeking outvenomous snakes. My friends were content to while away theirtime with the three F's – Football, Fighting, and Fornication.They washed it all down with six-packs of beer.
That brings us to me. Despite the fact that I towered over most myage, I was too lazy to be any good at football, too accommodatingto get in many fights, and too scared of my female classmates tofind a willing partner for the latter.
But then, in the spring of '89, I went to work at Pearl's.
Like all sixteen-year-old boys, my desire for cold hard cash wasrooted in a swelling appreciation of the opposite sex. Foolishly, Ibelieved a steady paycheck, and all the imagined things I couldbuy with my minimum wage windfall, would separate me from thepack. In my warped fantasy land, I envisioned hundred dollar billsbulging from my pockets and girls clamoring for my attention.Actually, I didn't care about girls in the plural. I wanted only togain the affection of one : Samantha Blake.
I'd been harboring a crush for Samantha better than a year, butgiven her elevated stature in the halls of Caprock High School, I'dnever acted upon my infatuation. Samantha was a cheerleader; Iwas a cowboy boot-wearing rabbit raiser. She was graceful, petite,and beautiful; I was a six-foot-three sophomore who hadn't quitemastered the coordination of my man-sized body. She was oneof the most popular girls at our high school; I'd lost my bid tobecome FFA president.
Turns out not even Scott, my best friend, voted for me. Notthat I blame him. After all, my opponent to head up Caprock'sFuture Farmers of America was Destiny Hayes. Destiny had beenwildly popular with all of the guys since the fourth grade, whenshe was the first girl to grow a set of boobs. There we were in highschool, and the other girls had yet to make up for Destiny's headstart. Scott had been in love with her, or at least her bra size, sinceelementary school, but as I said, there was only one girl for me.
Samantha Blake wasn't like the superficial and pretentiouscheerleaders you see in movies. She was sweet, kind, and possessedlong black eyelashes that left me tongue-tied every time theyfluttered in my presence. Scott maintained that other girls in ourclass were just as pretty. A point I might have conceded, except . .. none of those other girls made my heart accelerate with a singleword. None of them made me lay awake at night thinking abouttheir big brown eyes. None of them were Samantha Blake. Okay,so it wasn't her eyes I stayed up at night pondering. My thoughtswere of a more libidinous and lusty nature. I was a teenage boyafter all. Nevertheless, my sleepless nights and unacknowledgedattraction for Samantha paled in comparison to my boss's brandof lady troubles.
Doyle had three women in his life. His first wife and the motherof his three boys, Pamela. His second wife, Laura, whom he wasin the process of divorcing when I hired on and last, but not least,Snuggles.
Snuggles was an English Bulldog. Her fur was brown and white,and she was one of the laziest, not to mention nastiest, canines toever down a bowl of kibble. Snuggles possessed runny, pus-filledeyes, a loud, raspy breathing pattern, reminiscent of an asthmaticDarth Vader. Her stubby, bowed legs that barely kept her flabbygut from dragging the ground. She also happened to be Doyle'smost prized possession.
Ninety percent of the time, Snuggles curled up on her doggybed behind the counter and refused to move. Too bad for me ifI needed something from the cabinet her fat body was pressedagainst. Once or twice per day she would hoist her smelly carcassfrom the fleece pad, only to use my pant leg as a depository forher snot-crusted eyes. A nasty habit to be sure, but that act beat herother habit all to hell.
Doyle lived for the times when Snuggles went into heat. Havingread an ad in the Thrifty Nickel for English Bulldog pups fetchingthirteen-hundred bucks a pop, mining Snuggles' ovaries becamehis life's mission. I, however, dreaded the arrival of the dog's cycle.For this glorious week, Snuggles wasn't merely content to wipeher eye boogers on my jeans. No -- she also felt the animalisticcalling to drag her butt across the store's concrete floor.
Guess who cleaned up the crimson snail trails. Me.
The only good thing about these visits from Mother Nature wasthe entertainment they provided at each failed attempt by Doyle toproduce a litter of grandpups. Doyle whored Snuggles out to everymale bulldog within a three county area. Too greedy to share in thepotential booty of a litter worth several grand, Doyle always optedto pay upfront stud fees rather than give up a higher share shouldshe actually conceive by paying with pick of the litter.
For each arranged rendezvous, Snuggles would shack up withthe chosen doggy Don Juan. Three or four days later she'd returnfrom her tryst looking as happy and satisfied as a fat man leavinga Vegas buffet. Given the price of bulldog pups, Doyle projectedSnuggles and her uterus to be good for an easy five grand per yearand by his calculations, she only needed to have two litters of twopups to accomplish that goal.
Along with the dog, Doyle was also raising three boys. Threemean little hoodlums that I wagered would make him a grandpalong before Snuggles ever did. Never mind the fact that Austin,the oldest, was only eleven. Their father's genes were too strongfor them not to find trouble of some sort and given Doyle'strack record, some of that trouble was bound to be of the femalevariety.
To this day I still can't fathom how Doyle sweet-talked so manywomen into the sack. Women you would never expect a man wholived in a double-wide on the outskirts of town to coerce into asleepover.
Women like Dr. Croft.
When pimping out Snuggles failed to work, Doyle turned toartificial insemination. The procedure was pricey, but each timeSnuggles came into heat, he'd reach for his credit card, load thepooch into his pickup, and head for the vet's office. This went onfor better than a year, and I never suspected Snuggles wasn't theonly one getting her jollies at the appointments.
Then came the day I was in the back, sacking up some henscratch for Mrs. Esparza. Doyle had taught me how to up-sell so Iwas in the middle of trying to convince the woman a bit of oystershell and a bag of laying pellets would raise her egg production."As hens get older," I said, "they really need the extra calciumthey gain from oyster shells."
"No, no, no. No hay falta con mis gallinas." Mrs. Esparzawagged a finger in my face. She was a regular customer, so Iknew my chances of selling her anything extra were over once sheturned to responding in Spanish. Next she would pretend not tounderstand anything I said.
"Yo, Travis!" Doyle's voice came over the intercom, saving mefrom continuing what would have been a futile effort.
"Yeah," I yelled back.
"Hurry up and get Mrs. Esparza loaded. I have an importantmission for you."
I carried the hen scratch out, loaded it in Mrs. Esparza's Buick,and headed back inside to see what Doyle had in mind.
"John's bringing some papers by for me to sign, so I need you totake Snuggles in for her AI appointment."
John was Doyle's lawyer. Between the divorces, the subpoenawhen Doyle's bookie got popped, and other brushes with thejustice system, they had a close working relationship, so I didn'tthink anything of his explanation.
"Okay," I said, "But I'm taking your truck. I don't want yourdog wiping eye snot on my seats." My pickup had been a recentgift from my grandfather, and despite the '76 Ford's batteredappearance and age, I was still quite proud of the vehicle. Grabbingthe keys for the store's flatbed Ford off the pegboard, I snapped aleash on Snuggles and drug her fat butt out the door.
On the way to the vet's, Snuggles tried to lay her head on mylap. I managed to fend her off, though I very nearly rear ended aVW bus in the process. Then, right as I turned into the lot at thevet's office, Snuggles sneezed and blew mucous all over the rightside of my face, as well as the driver's window.
Cursing, I reached for a stained Taco Bell napkin on the dash. Thelone towelette did little more than smear the snot, so I searched forsomething else to clean my cheek while Snuggles looked on withsmug satisfaction. I leaned across to open the glove box. The foulbeast mistook the gesture as a sign of love and planted her wide,pink tongue on my cheek. The lick left a string of dog slobberoozing from my ear.
In between heartfelt expletives, I wiped the slime off with theback of my hand and headed inside.
Behind the receptionist desk sat a stunning young woman in herearly twenties. "Snuggles!" She beamed when we walked in. Thegirl came around the counter to pat the dog's head.
Sucking in my stomach, I swelled my chest and proudly said,"She's a good dog."
"She sure is," the girl cooed. Then she looked up at me andfrowned. Pointing with a cute, manicured fingernail the receptionistsaid, "You've got something on your eyebrow."
Reaching up, I grabbed a gooey green wad of bulldog boogers.So much for making a favorable impression.
The girl led me and Snuggles back to a waiting room where sheleft us alone.
Up until then, I'd assumed bulldog semen came in little vials.
I assumed they kept it frozen and had a machine that heated it upto the right temperature when needed. I assumed the procedureinvolved something resembling a turkey baster. Two out of threeof my assumptions proved to be flat-ass wrong.
Dr. Croft came in after only a few minutes and the truth didn'tdawn on me even as she bent to lift the bulldog that had followedher into the room. Brutus was his name as I'd later find out.
I watched as the doctor, an attractive woman in her forties,reached beneath the male bulldog, snapped what looked like asandwich bag around his junk, and began the collection process.Like a fan at Wimbledon, my head went back and forth as Dr.Croft established a steady rhythm.
Blood rushed to my cheeks when she looked me in the eye andsaid, "So you work for Doyle? That must be interesting."
I might have managed a nod as she continued to stroke Brutus.Beside me, Snuggles ignored the poochie porn show. There I was,a teenage boy, trapped in a tiny room, and forced to bear witnessas an attractive and secure middle-aged woman jacked off a verywell-endowed beast. Most would describe that as interesting.
Not me. I found it mortifying.
Puberty had hit me like a two-ton rock so I had both an active,fantasy-filled imagination and a strong libido, but none of mydaydreams had ever starred the canine equivalent of Ron Jeremy.Though I was pretty sure, a few of my nightmares were about to.And yet, I couldn't look away.
Grimacing, I watched the piston-like movement with held breathand tensed jaw. When the big moment arrived, I actually flinched.Brutus shuddered once, before casually looking over his shoulderas if challenging me to do better. Right about then, I felt about asconfident as a major league slugger swinging a toothpick.
The only part of the act I'd envisioned correctly was the turkeybaster. When the whole sordid event was finished, I'm not surewho felt more violated, me or Snuggles. On the way out I didn'teven slow down. No way did I want to chance making eye contactwith that pretty receptionist.
Back at the feedstore, Doyle had a huge, shit-eating grin plasteredon his face when I slinked in.
"You could have warned me," I said.
"I could've," he nodded, "but that wouldn't have been nearlyas much fun." Doyle laughed, before adding, "Heard you turnedredder than Brutus's dipstick."
"What did you want me to do? Cheer the vet on? Offer to lenda hand?"
He shrugged. "You could have volunteered to go next."
"That would have gone over well."
Doyle served up a lop-sided grin and shrugged. "Worked forme."
Gape-mouthed, I stared.
"Sometimes all you've got to do is ask," Doyle said with a winkand an evil chuckle.
Who knows whether Doyle was telling the truth or just jerkingmy chain, so to speak, but he taught me a valuable lesson; Untilyou're brave enough to ask the question, you'll never hear a yes.I could tell you that the whole bulldog experience gave me theconfidence to march right up to Samantha Blake and ask her out.Yeah, I could tell you that, but it'd be a lie. Truth is it took manymore lessons. Some painful, some criminal, and some downrightimmoral before I emerged from the feedstore a wizened memberof the male species.
Perhaps I would've found love and a good woman to share mylife with without Doyle's depraved guidance. Perhaps, I would'vesailed through my teen years and into adulthood unscathed andequally as prepared to face the world. Perhaps, but it wouldn'thave been nearly as much fun.
Click here to purchase a paperback copy of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES in its entirety.
Most coming-of-age stories are fraught with symbolism, hiddenmetaphors, and a heaping mound of other literary devices. Not thisone. Not mine. You see, I came of age while working at a dustyTexas feedstore. A place where To Kill a Mockingbird involved atwelve-year-old and a BB gun. Of Mice and Men was a problemeasily solved with rat poison. And David Copperfield was nothingmore than a dude that made shit disappear.
In the spring of 1989, I was a rosy-cheeked boy of sixteen.Doyle Suggs was a twice-divorced, thirty-year-old high schooldropout. On the surface Doyle and I had little in common, yet hisinvolvement in my life changed me in drastic and dramatic ways.Doyle ran a feedstore in Amarillo, Texas. A joint called Pearl'sFeed and Seed. Working there provided me my first paying job,my first taste of how fun life could be, and … my first brush withreal danger.
Pearl's Feed and Seed was named after Doyle's mother.Originally she ran the place, but by the time I hired on, Pearl hadlong since hightailed it back to her ancestral home in Oklahoma.Nearly all of Doyle's family hailed from the same ruralOklahoma town. A town famous for hosting one of the world'slargest rattlesnake roundups. You have to wonder about an entiretown that considers it high entertainment to track down and capturevast quantities of poisonous snakes. I don't know how the practicegot started, but let's hope it was a group of teenage boys that firsthit upon that idea, since it's a proven fact pubescent males are theleast intelligent demographic of human beings. A demographic Isolidly belonged to when I hired on at the feedstore.
Even with the ignorance of youth working against us, neitherI, nor any of my high school buddies made a habit of seeking outvenomous snakes. My friends were content to while away theirtime with the three F's – Football, Fighting, and Fornication.They washed it all down with six-packs of beer.
That brings us to me. Despite the fact that I towered over most myage, I was too lazy to be any good at football, too accommodatingto get in many fights, and too scared of my female classmates tofind a willing partner for the latter.
But then, in the spring of '89, I went to work at Pearl's.
Like all sixteen-year-old boys, my desire for cold hard cash wasrooted in a swelling appreciation of the opposite sex. Foolishly, Ibelieved a steady paycheck, and all the imagined things I couldbuy with my minimum wage windfall, would separate me from thepack. In my warped fantasy land, I envisioned hundred dollar billsbulging from my pockets and girls clamoring for my attention.Actually, I didn't care about girls in the plural. I wanted only togain the affection of one : Samantha Blake.
I'd been harboring a crush for Samantha better than a year, butgiven her elevated stature in the halls of Caprock High School, I'dnever acted upon my infatuation. Samantha was a cheerleader; Iwas a cowboy boot-wearing rabbit raiser. She was graceful, petite,and beautiful; I was a six-foot-three sophomore who hadn't quitemastered the coordination of my man-sized body. She was oneof the most popular girls at our high school; I'd lost my bid tobecome FFA president.
Turns out not even Scott, my best friend, voted for me. Notthat I blame him. After all, my opponent to head up Caprock'sFuture Farmers of America was Destiny Hayes. Destiny had beenwildly popular with all of the guys since the fourth grade, whenshe was the first girl to grow a set of boobs. There we were in highschool, and the other girls had yet to make up for Destiny's headstart. Scott had been in love with her, or at least her bra size, sinceelementary school, but as I said, there was only one girl for me.
Samantha Blake wasn't like the superficial and pretentiouscheerleaders you see in movies. She was sweet, kind, and possessedlong black eyelashes that left me tongue-tied every time theyfluttered in my presence. Scott maintained that other girls in ourclass were just as pretty. A point I might have conceded, except . .. none of those other girls made my heart accelerate with a singleword. None of them made me lay awake at night thinking abouttheir big brown eyes. None of them were Samantha Blake. Okay,so it wasn't her eyes I stayed up at night pondering. My thoughtswere of a more libidinous and lusty nature. I was a teenage boyafter all. Nevertheless, my sleepless nights and unacknowledgedattraction for Samantha paled in comparison to my boss's brandof lady troubles.
Doyle had three women in his life. His first wife and the motherof his three boys, Pamela. His second wife, Laura, whom he wasin the process of divorcing when I hired on and last, but not least,Snuggles.
Snuggles was an English Bulldog. Her fur was brown and white,and she was one of the laziest, not to mention nastiest, canines toever down a bowl of kibble. Snuggles possessed runny, pus-filledeyes, a loud, raspy breathing pattern, reminiscent of an asthmaticDarth Vader. Her stubby, bowed legs that barely kept her flabbygut from dragging the ground. She also happened to be Doyle'smost prized possession.
Ninety percent of the time, Snuggles curled up on her doggybed behind the counter and refused to move. Too bad for me ifI needed something from the cabinet her fat body was pressedagainst. Once or twice per day she would hoist her smelly carcassfrom the fleece pad, only to use my pant leg as a depository forher snot-crusted eyes. A nasty habit to be sure, but that act beat herother habit all to hell.
Doyle lived for the times when Snuggles went into heat. Havingread an ad in the Thrifty Nickel for English Bulldog pups fetchingthirteen-hundred bucks a pop, mining Snuggles' ovaries becamehis life's mission. I, however, dreaded the arrival of the dog's cycle.For this glorious week, Snuggles wasn't merely content to wipeher eye boogers on my jeans. No -- she also felt the animalisticcalling to drag her butt across the store's concrete floor.
Guess who cleaned up the crimson snail trails. Me.
The only good thing about these visits from Mother Nature wasthe entertainment they provided at each failed attempt by Doyle toproduce a litter of grandpups. Doyle whored Snuggles out to everymale bulldog within a three county area. Too greedy to share in thepotential booty of a litter worth several grand, Doyle always optedto pay upfront stud fees rather than give up a higher share shouldshe actually conceive by paying with pick of the litter.
For each arranged rendezvous, Snuggles would shack up withthe chosen doggy Don Juan. Three or four days later she'd returnfrom her tryst looking as happy and satisfied as a fat man leavinga Vegas buffet. Given the price of bulldog pups, Doyle projectedSnuggles and her uterus to be good for an easy five grand per yearand by his calculations, she only needed to have two litters of twopups to accomplish that goal.
Along with the dog, Doyle was also raising three boys. Threemean little hoodlums that I wagered would make him a grandpalong before Snuggles ever did. Never mind the fact that Austin,the oldest, was only eleven. Their father's genes were too strongfor them not to find trouble of some sort and given Doyle'strack record, some of that trouble was bound to be of the femalevariety.
To this day I still can't fathom how Doyle sweet-talked so manywomen into the sack. Women you would never expect a man wholived in a double-wide on the outskirts of town to coerce into asleepover.
Women like Dr. Croft.
When pimping out Snuggles failed to work, Doyle turned toartificial insemination. The procedure was pricey, but each timeSnuggles came into heat, he'd reach for his credit card, load thepooch into his pickup, and head for the vet's office. This went onfor better than a year, and I never suspected Snuggles wasn't theonly one getting her jollies at the appointments.
Then came the day I was in the back, sacking up some henscratch for Mrs. Esparza. Doyle had taught me how to up-sell so Iwas in the middle of trying to convince the woman a bit of oystershell and a bag of laying pellets would raise her egg production."As hens get older," I said, "they really need the extra calciumthey gain from oyster shells."
"No, no, no. No hay falta con mis gallinas." Mrs. Esparzawagged a finger in my face. She was a regular customer, so Iknew my chances of selling her anything extra were over once sheturned to responding in Spanish. Next she would pretend not tounderstand anything I said.
"Yo, Travis!" Doyle's voice came over the intercom, saving mefrom continuing what would have been a futile effort.
"Yeah," I yelled back.
"Hurry up and get Mrs. Esparza loaded. I have an importantmission for you."
I carried the hen scratch out, loaded it in Mrs. Esparza's Buick,and headed back inside to see what Doyle had in mind.
"John's bringing some papers by for me to sign, so I need you totake Snuggles in for her AI appointment."
John was Doyle's lawyer. Between the divorces, the subpoenawhen Doyle's bookie got popped, and other brushes with thejustice system, they had a close working relationship, so I didn'tthink anything of his explanation.
"Okay," I said, "But I'm taking your truck. I don't want yourdog wiping eye snot on my seats." My pickup had been a recentgift from my grandfather, and despite the '76 Ford's batteredappearance and age, I was still quite proud of the vehicle. Grabbingthe keys for the store's flatbed Ford off the pegboard, I snapped aleash on Snuggles and drug her fat butt out the door.
On the way to the vet's, Snuggles tried to lay her head on mylap. I managed to fend her off, though I very nearly rear ended aVW bus in the process. Then, right as I turned into the lot at thevet's office, Snuggles sneezed and blew mucous all over the rightside of my face, as well as the driver's window.
Cursing, I reached for a stained Taco Bell napkin on the dash. Thelone towelette did little more than smear the snot, so I searched forsomething else to clean my cheek while Snuggles looked on withsmug satisfaction. I leaned across to open the glove box. The foulbeast mistook the gesture as a sign of love and planted her wide,pink tongue on my cheek. The lick left a string of dog slobberoozing from my ear.
In between heartfelt expletives, I wiped the slime off with theback of my hand and headed inside.
Behind the receptionist desk sat a stunning young woman in herearly twenties. "Snuggles!" She beamed when we walked in. Thegirl came around the counter to pat the dog's head.
Sucking in my stomach, I swelled my chest and proudly said,"She's a good dog."
"She sure is," the girl cooed. Then she looked up at me andfrowned. Pointing with a cute, manicured fingernail the receptionistsaid, "You've got something on your eyebrow."
Reaching up, I grabbed a gooey green wad of bulldog boogers.So much for making a favorable impression.
The girl led me and Snuggles back to a waiting room where sheleft us alone.
Up until then, I'd assumed bulldog semen came in little vials.
I assumed they kept it frozen and had a machine that heated it upto the right temperature when needed. I assumed the procedureinvolved something resembling a turkey baster. Two out of threeof my assumptions proved to be flat-ass wrong.
Dr. Croft came in after only a few minutes and the truth didn'tdawn on me even as she bent to lift the bulldog that had followedher into the room. Brutus was his name as I'd later find out.
I watched as the doctor, an attractive woman in her forties,reached beneath the male bulldog, snapped what looked like asandwich bag around his junk, and began the collection process.Like a fan at Wimbledon, my head went back and forth as Dr.Croft established a steady rhythm.
Blood rushed to my cheeks when she looked me in the eye andsaid, "So you work for Doyle? That must be interesting."
I might have managed a nod as she continued to stroke Brutus.Beside me, Snuggles ignored the poochie porn show. There I was,a teenage boy, trapped in a tiny room, and forced to bear witnessas an attractive and secure middle-aged woman jacked off a verywell-endowed beast. Most would describe that as interesting.
Not me. I found it mortifying.
Puberty had hit me like a two-ton rock so I had both an active,fantasy-filled imagination and a strong libido, but none of mydaydreams had ever starred the canine equivalent of Ron Jeremy.Though I was pretty sure, a few of my nightmares were about to.And yet, I couldn't look away.
Grimacing, I watched the piston-like movement with held breathand tensed jaw. When the big moment arrived, I actually flinched.Brutus shuddered once, before casually looking over his shoulderas if challenging me to do better. Right about then, I felt about asconfident as a major league slugger swinging a toothpick.
The only part of the act I'd envisioned correctly was the turkeybaster. When the whole sordid event was finished, I'm not surewho felt more violated, me or Snuggles. On the way out I didn'teven slow down. No way did I want to chance making eye contactwith that pretty receptionist.
Back at the feedstore, Doyle had a huge, shit-eating grin plasteredon his face when I slinked in.
"You could have warned me," I said.
"I could've," he nodded, "but that wouldn't have been nearlyas much fun." Doyle laughed, before adding, "Heard you turnedredder than Brutus's dipstick."
"What did you want me to do? Cheer the vet on? Offer to lenda hand?"
He shrugged. "You could have volunteered to go next."
"That would have gone over well."
Doyle served up a lop-sided grin and shrugged. "Worked forme."
Gape-mouthed, I stared.
"Sometimes all you've got to do is ask," Doyle said with a winkand an evil chuckle.
Who knows whether Doyle was telling the truth or just jerkingmy chain, so to speak, but he taught me a valuable lesson; Untilyou're brave enough to ask the question, you'll never hear a yes.I could tell you that the whole bulldog experience gave me theconfidence to march right up to Samantha Blake and ask her out.Yeah, I could tell you that, but it'd be a lie. Truth is it took manymore lessons. Some painful, some criminal, and some downrightimmoral before I emerged from the feedstore a wizened memberof the male species.
Perhaps I would've found love and a good woman to share mylife with without Doyle's depraved guidance. Perhaps, I would'vesailed through my teen years and into adulthood unscathed andequally as prepared to face the world. Perhaps, but it wouldn'thave been nearly as much fun.
Click here to purchase a paperback copy of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES in its entirety.
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