It is warm and pleasant to sit in the grass behind the milk house sipping at my third bottle of beer. They are all mine, all mine, the nest of brown, elongated egg-like bottles of beer I am holding between my furry thighs. Fortunately I am a slow drinker, for it takes only two bottles to disable my judgment and make me the silliest creature in all nature. I laugh and roll on the wet grass for the pleasure of feeling the blood rush tingling from one side of my drunken body to the other. I roll over and it rushes back, numb to tingly, tingly to numb. I roll and scratch up the grass and laugh until I am foaming at the mouth. The Nordmeyers have two yard dogs, one a large female Springer Spaniel named Josie, the other a witless German Shepherd named Biff. Josie leaves me alone, crawling under the brooder house whenever I appear. Biff has never learned anything in his life. He is so stupid that he swallows the cockleburrs he pulls out of his fur, unable to think of anything else to do with something that is in his mouth.
