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Beulah, I’m fairly affluent in birding myself.”
    â€œHow nice.”
    I took this opportunity to move a bit closer to her. Heh, heh. “Perhaps you weren’t aware of that.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBut it’s true. The study of birds is called ‘Birdathology,’ from the root-word ‘bird’ and the rootless-word ‘athology.’”
    She scooted away from me and said, “Shhhh.”
    â€œSorry.” We watched in silence for several minutes. “He doesn’t seem to be finding any quail.” I scootched over in her direction.
    â€œHe will. He always does. Just watch.”
    She scootched over to the east. Gee, the way she was squirming around, she must have been as bored as I was.
    I tried to concentrate on the exciting events that were unfolding along the creek—Plato streaking back and forth with his nose to the ground and his tail stuck straight out behind him.
    Big deal. I was dying of boredom.
    â€œBeulah, I must tell you something very important. It’s going to come as a terrible shock.”
    That worked. She tore her gaze away from the hunt.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, Beulah, I happen to know that your friend . . . Plato, that is, won’t find any birds along the creek. I monitor the comings and goings of our quail population rather closely, you see, and I happen to know . . .”
    â€œOh look! He’s found something.”
    I narrowed my eyes and studied the scene. Sure enough, Plato had locked down into a pointing position, as though he had been transformed into a cement statue.
    I took this opportunity to move a bit closer to her warm side.

    â€œBeulah, I hate to be the messenger of bad news, but I’ve been through that creek bottom dozens of times, hundreds of times, and know every grain of sand and every sprig of grass, and I’ve never seen a quail down there. I’m sorry. I know he’s a friend of yours, but . . .”
    WHIRRRRRR!
    Birds? Twenty or thirty quail?
    She turned to me with a smile. “See? I knew he’d find birds.” She scooted east.
    I found myself coughing. “Yes, I also thought he might stumble across that one covey . . . we’ve been watching it for, uh, weeks now and . . .”
    Down below, I heard the men shouting, “Good dog, Plato! Nice work, boy.”
    Okay, so maybe he’d lucked into finding the only covey of quail along that section of the creek. Any mutt could find one covey. The real test would come in finding another—and I knew for a fact that there wasn’t one.
    And just to prove it, I scooted a bit closer to . . . my goodness, she had lovely brown eyes!
    â€œBeulah, I’m a dog of few words, so let’s go straight to the bottom line. I think the time has come for you to . . .”
    â€œHe’s picked up another scent. See how he’s slowed down?”
    â€œIt’s a rabbit, Beulah. Don’t get your hopes up. But as I was saying, I’m a dog of few words.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œSo we agree on that. The problem with dogs these days is that they talk too much.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œAnd what I have to say won’t take long. You see, I think our relationship has reached a turning point, and the time has come, my buttercup, for you to . . .”
    â€œHank, I keep hearing your voice.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful news, my cactus flower, be­cause I often hear yours—in my dreams.”
    â€œYes, but this is no dream.”
    â€œOh, it could be, my little bluebonnet. Our fondest dreams are within our grasp. All we have to do is . . .”
    â€œShhh. Look, he’s on point again.”
    â€œWho? Oh, him.” Sure enough, What’s-His-Name had turned to stone once again. “You know, he’s going to get in trouble for pointing those rabbits. But as I was saying . . .”
    WHIRRRR!
    By George, the weeds just came alive with whirring wings and flying birds. Beulah turned