Sam Basom chuckles to himself, “That sure was some prank you pulled there.”
I grimace, “I guess if you weren’t the one scrubbing dumpsters, for all the help I got.’
The Wheenerman shrugs, “I wore some blisters on my hands there, and gotr some leaf-burns.”
Sam Bascom switches the subject, “Sy I was wondering, have you fellas ever engaged into any scientific research?’
The Wheener-man clenches a fist and looks suspiciously to either side, “Not personally, but if you point one out, I’ll be glad to escort it out the door.”
“Nah,” Sam Bascom refuses to beleive the Wheener-Man, “I mean like a census.”
“Mrs Falconer always told me to come to my senses,” the WheenerMan decides, “but I could never got around to it.”
“NMo, NMo,” Sam Bascom contends, “I mean like counting things, like counting wild animals and stuff.”
“Wildlife? In Burdock Center?” I ask.
“Prime suspects,” the Wheenerman explains, ‘Plenty of them.”
“No, no, I’m not speaking about any of the Stubbs-family,” Sam Bascom chuckles, “I mean like in a census.”
The Wheener-man gives himself a self-inflicted dutch-rub, “Mrs Falcolner was always telling me that I needed to settle down to come to my sensus.”
Sam Bascom is a tad bit frustrated, “Aiie, I mean like counting Wild Animals to see how many there are, like what Ranger Warden does after Hunting Season.”
The Wheener-man solemnly holds a hand up, “Don’t look here, I didn’t shoot no Wild Animals, very many, at least.”
“Now Joke Catfish are a different story,” I testify.
Sam Bascom growls, “The too Much Creek is crawling with the l;ittle yellow buggers.”
“But we do try our hardest,” the Wheenerman points up.
“True, you do,” Sam Bascom concedes, “Those joke-catfish, You do catch bunches of them.”
But Sam goes on, “So you do know how to count?”
Wheener-man shrugs, “so long as it doesn’t get too far past ten.”
“And so you could count wild animals if you wanted to,” Sam Basom tries to reason with us.
“I’m not sure our run-ins with wild animals would count that much,” I put in.
“Like your run-in with that spike-buck that chased you out of the wood-lot when you was cutting up kindling,” the WheenerMan chuckles up.
“Oh yeah, Mr Up-right Posture-challenged,” I retort, “I’ve heard someone had a recent run-in with the Grumpy Old Bear.”
“That old-bruin still moving thru these-here parts?” Sam asks, “Why that kritter was grumpy back in the day, of course he was more the Grumpy Middle-Aged Bear then.”
“The same,” HM Wheenerman nods.