He had seen Miss Bessie jitter away from P. T., but that was different.
A yapping puppy at your heels is an immediate threat,
but the difference between him and Miss Bessie was that when there was no P. T. in sight she was perfectly content, sleepily chewing her cud.
She wasn't staring down at the old Perkins place, wondering and worrying.
She wasn't standing there on her tippytoes while anxiety ate holes through all her stomachs.
He stroked his forehead across her flank and sighed.
If there was still water in the creek come summer, he'd ask Leslie to teach him how to swim.
How's that? he said to himself. I'll just grab that old terror by the shoulders and shake the daylights out of it.
Maybe I'll even learn scuba diving. He shuddered. He may not have been born with guts, but he didn't have to die without them.
Hey, maybe you could go down to the Medical College and get a gut transplant.
No, Doc, I got me a perfectly good heart. What I need is a gut transplant. How 'bout it?
He smiled. He'd have to tell Leslie about wanting a gut transplant. It was the kind of nonsense she appreciated.
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