Old Luke and the Stew

I tied ole paint at the old cowboy’s shack. He’d been in the crib mucking stalls, haying a little and shucking corn. I observed him at his chores from the porch as the day kept limping on He asks, if I’d stay for dinner sense the morning was pert near gone. “Sure,” I said, “I’d be obliged to set and eat, enjoy some country cooking," removed my boots, leaned back and took the load off my feet. He sat the table with a steaming stew, pert near out of heaven’s recipe book but Luke, his old hound dog, seemed to hold a grievance with his eye staring, devious look. The old man seized a piping hot biscuit and buttered it good and rich. He dipped a bowl of stew for himself and cleaned the dipper pert near with a lick. He took a glass from the table, removed his dentures to lay them free, flung the water out the window and handed the glass to me. He dipped me a bowl of his brew and it smelled so good and all, So, I just run my tongue over the rim, pert near lapped it like a dog. And though thirst tucked my throat, and the devil’s pleating temped me and I pert near had a taste for it but I just couldn’t rope that tea. Old Luke lay at my feet and sniffed his twitching nose His eyes glued me with that stare, checking me out, I suppose. So, I slid my hand to his head for a pat or maybe, a scratch but his gums rolled up and there was a growl and a snap before I could jerk my fingers back. “Old Luke is pert near touchy,” I declared, “If the truth be all told.” The cowboy mused with a winking eye “that mutt hates to share his bowl.”