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Harvey and the Interloper
Chip Chipman
AZOD Staff Writer
We had spent the morning fishing Maine’s Machias River upstream from where it crossed route nine. At noon, we were back at Harvey’s pickup, sitting on the tailgate, drinking RC Colas and eating Devil Dogs.
A shiny Hudson automobile pulled into the small parking area just a few yards from us.
It didn’t go unnoticed by either of us that the car had New York plates. Harvey’s eyes narrowed like Clint Eastwood’s. The driver got out, and removed his fly rod from the back and walked toward us. He was wearing a Yankee baseball cap. Ever since the Red Sox had lost the pennant to the Yankees in a one- game play- off in’49, Harvey had detested the Yankees and Yankee fans.
As the man approached, Harvey’s dog Moxie came out from under the truck and started growling. The man stopped and warily eyed the dog.
“Does that dog bite?”
“It’s a dog ain’t it?” answered Harvey.
Harvey told Moxie to get in the truck.
“What kind of a dog is that?”
“It’s an Albanian Weasel Terrier,” said Harvey.
Of course, there is no such breed, whenever asked; Harvey would always come up with something off the wall. Sometimes he might say Bulgarian Ferret Terrier.
“That’s what I thought,” said the Yankee.
“You fellas had any luck?”
Harvey cringed. “No luck at all, but we caught a bunch just the same.”
“Any size to ‘em?,” asked Yankee.
“They all have SIZE,” Harvey replied laconically.
“Of course,” replied Yankee, “I guess I’ll go down stream and try my luck.”
“We just came from that direction, you’d probably do better by going up stream.”
“Thanks,” said Yankee, “I’ll do just that.”
The stranger soon disappeared behind a bunch of alders on his way upstream.
“What a bozo!” Harvey grumbled. Moxie growled in agreement. Finishing his lunch, Harvey put the remains away and looked at me. “Well boy, are you ready?”
“To go home?
“Down stream boy, down stream.”
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