In those days Sally had long blond hair. Just below the shoulder. We owned a run-down farmhouse with cats and desperately needed a dog (Ha!)
One evening we were headed up to Thomasville when Sal spotted something moving on the roadside. She said "I think that was a puppy." For the uninitiated that meant "Turn around. We have to save a life." So I turned around and sure enough there was a tiny puppy in the grass by the road. We got out of the Pinto and the pup retreated under some Kudzu. Sal followed. I heard a squeal as she picked it up (barely a handful) and nearly squealed myself when I saw it. Hairless, suppurating, smelly, crying and a grasshopper caught in it's mouth. Probably had tried to eat it but couldn't. I mentioned the possibility of leaving it or running over it and got the "British Glare". End of conversation. The pup crawled up under Sal's hair on her shoulder and hung on with it's tiny paws. I swear you could hear it purr. He told me: "My name is Pavo, and I will be your dog." And he was. For 15 years. Of course we all got mange mites but that was a small price to pay for Pavo, the best-est dog ever.
And "She Who Must be Obeyed" was right again.
I have been subjected to the British Glare since. Don't mess with Brits when they glare.
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