The Dog of the South

by Charles Portis

A lot of people, the same ones who lie about their gas mileage, would have said they got no sleep at all.

Whenever that kind of thing came up, he would always say—boast, the way those people do—that he had no head for figures and couldn’t do things with his hands, slyly suggesting the presence of finer qualities.

Tiny things take on significance when I’m away from home.

It was cool up there and the landscape was not like the friendly earth I knew. This was the cool dry place that we hear so much about, the place where we are supposed to store things.

This cracked me up

Then he took a ballpoint pen and some glasses from his shirt pocket and I jumped up from the bench in alarm, fearing he was about to diagram something for me, but he was only rearranging his pocket stuff.

I drank bourbon until I figured out what it cost and then I switched to gin and tonic, which was much cheaper.

“It’s getting pretty late in the day for you to have so few interests and convictions. How old are you, Mr. Midge?”

I’m white and I don’t dance but that doesn’t mean I have all the answers.