The Winter Courtship Rituals of Fur-Bearing Critters
“It was an old Chevy half-ton with a primer-spot paint job and an engine that could haul a herd of cattle, if the trailer hitch didn’t fall off first. It purred like a kitten, but it also rattled your brain around in your skull because the suspension sucked wind. Crawford was going to have to do something about that.
“Ye-eah.” Ben’s voice rose and fell as they hit a pothole, and he clenched the help-me-Jesus bar above the window. “Thanks for the instructions, by the way—I take it you were the one who fed them all after Gertie passed?” Crawford grunted. Not that Gertie’s relatives had noticed.
“Well,” Ben said, taking the grunt for what it was, “that was really nice of you. That sheep is scary—she thinks she’s the kitten, but she’s the size of a horse!” Crawford grunted again, because that was about the size of it. “We’ll shear her in the spring, if you want. We did for Gertie, gave her cash for the fleece.” “Oh, sure—was that why Gertie kept her?” Craw shook his head.
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