It all started one day while I was hoeing corn down in our field close to the river.
Across the river, a party of fishermen had been camped for several days.
I heard the old Maxwell car as it snorted and chugged its way out of the bottoms.
I knew they were leaving. Throwing down my hoe, I ran down to the river and waded across at a place called the Shannon Ford.
I hurried to the campground. It was always a pleasure to prowl where fishermen had camped.
I usually could find things: a fish line, or a forgotten fish pole.
On one occasion, I found a beautiful knife stuck in the bark of a sycamore tree, forgotten by a careless fisherman.
But on that day, I found the greatest of treasures, a sportsman’s magazine, discarded by the campers.
It was a real treasure for a country boy. Because of that magazine, my entire life was changed.
I sat down on an old sycamore log, and started thumbing through the leaves.
On the back pages of the magazine, I came to the “For Sale” section —“Dogs for Sale”—every kind of dog.
I read on and on. They had dogs I had never heard of, names I couldn’t make out.
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