Thursday morning the alarm went off at 4:30, exactly what I set it at the night before. With my eyes closed, I rolled over and hit the top of the clock, a little harder than I had to. I reached an arm out to the side and felt something hairy. I hoped it was Bear. I have ended an evening with an ugly woman once, on more than one occasion.
I opened my right eye and was relieved it was Bear I saw staring at my face with his bloodshot eyes and drool running from his massive jowls.
He farted.
“Thanks, what a pleasant way to start my day.”
His tail started to wag and thump on the bed. He put one of his giant paws on my neck and started to whine. His tongue lapped my cheek and his breath smelled worse than his fart. I wondered what he ate last night when he was having dinner at the Rainbow Towers with my merry neighbors.
“Ok, I’ll let you out. Our two friends said they will take care of you while I am gone. Now don’t forget to exercise with the horses because they feed you fattening food. Nothing like the stuff I give you.”
Bear looked up at me and whined. I don’t know if he was agreeing with me or if he really needed to go.
I got up and walked him back to the kitchen. He beat me there and had his front paws resting anxiously on the door.
“Before you go over there, stop back and say goodbye.” I opened the door.
With a soft, “ruff,” Bear took off running into the early morning darkness in the direction of the Rainbow Towers.
I walked back to the bedroom to pack for my trip to Atlanta. I pulled out my duffle bag and threw in a change of socks, underwear, another pair of Wrangler’s and a couple of shirts along with a box of .45 caliber shells for my Colt Belly Gun and a quart of Paul Masson Brandy.
Bear never did return to say good-bye.
As I drove to the Palmyra airport to meet Hap and Sam for our flight to Atlanta, I visualized Bear sitting at the kitchen table with those two squirrels, Hasse and Winterberg, eating fresh eggs and bacon and most likely, freshly baked pastries.
My stomach let out a growl. Maybe I should have stopped over to say good-bye before I left. I haven’t had one of their pastries in a couple of weeks. The fresh apple turnover is one of my favorites.
By the time I rolled into Palmyra, the sun was a bright red-orange, rising high in the sky to the East of the airport, the clouds extending from its sides like thin, pink strings. It promised to be another beautiful chilly day in the Dairy State.
I pulled up to the terminal, a small metal Quonset Hut, left over from the war and converted into an office and lounge. There was a large wooden sign hanging over the door, Palmyra Plane Rentals and Sky Diving painted on it in big red letters.
Directly to the side of the office was the hangar, another metal Quonset Hut, only much larger. I saw Sam had already pulled the Beechcraft D17 Staggerwing Biplane out of the hangar and a fuel truck was alongside, filling it up for our trip. I looked past the plane at the dirt runway. The takeoffs and landings were always a bit rough at the Palmyra Regional Airport.
I was wearing my Stetson hat and jeans with the belt buckle I won for placing second in the all-around cowboy competition on the Texas Rodeo circuit in 1937. My corduroy jacket was buttoned, hiding my Colt Detective Special, .45 Caliber belly gun. I had the barrel on the Colt cut down to two inches. The hammer had been dehorned, the trigger guard cut away