Never ask a barber if you need a haircut. The other day I asked my barber, Larry, and he said I definitely needed a trim. While he clipped the white scraggly hackles festooning my haggard old head, he recounted a tale the previous customer told him about his cousin Clarence.
A kindly old soul, Clarence shared his country cottage with a collection of canines. One day he was clattering along in his old pickup, headed to the fishing hole, when he passed a sign: “Talking dog for sale.” As gullible as they come, Clarence pulled up to the house. A man answered the door. “Go ’round back — I’ll be out direckly.”
Unlatching the gate, Clarence was greeted by a pack of pooches … all but one, a brindled mutt snoozing in the shade.
“Shoot! Nuttin’ but a bunch of curs,” Clarence mumbled. “I coulda been on the lake fishin’ by now. Ain’t no such thing as a talking dog.”
“Yes, there is.” Startled, Clarence looked around for the speaker.
“Over here,” the voice directed. Amazed, Clarence walked over to the brindle. Extending a paw, the dog said, “Hoover’s the name. Who might you be?”
Clarence shook the paw, introduced himself and asked, “How in the world did you learn to talk?”
“Long story,” Hoover said. “Have a seat. I’ll tell you.” All ears, Clarence sat.
“It all started a few years ago when the CIA was recruiting dogs for its canine corps. The work was dangerous — sniffing out bombs, warlords and the like, but being a youngster eager for adventure, I signed up.
“I was assigned a top-secret global mission, uncovering bomb plots and capturing bad guys in such far-flung countries as Azerbaijan, Burundi, Guyana, Liechtenstein, Mozambique, Pakistan, Slovenia, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Zimbabwe … just to name a few.
“The work was dangerous, and the pay wasn’t that great. I knew I’d never be promoted unless I developed a unique skill. Being the brainy brindle I am, learning to speak was a snap. I was promoted to top dog, with a hundred hounds working under me.
“And, since one dog year equals seven human years, I was guaranteed a secure retirement if I’d stay on three years, roughly the equivalent of a 20-year human career. So, I resumed globetrotting. Being lucky as I am smart, I managed to fulfill my CIA contract and retire, all in one piece. Now, I can take it easy the rest of my days, while drawing a nice monthly government check.”
About that time, Hoover’s owner came out. Eagerly, Clarence asked how much he’d take for the dog.
“Ten dollars.”
“As talented as that dog is — you gotta be kidding. Why, not only can he talk, but he’s traveled all over the world!”
Shaking his head in disgust, the man eyed Hoover scornfully and said, “That’s the prevaricatingest pooch that ever lived. Why, that fleabag ain’t never even left this back yard. Tell you what — I’ll pay you $10 just to take that lying dog!”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
