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Blood, Guns and Whores -- Chapter 2. Boots for My Birthday

Blood, Guns and Whores -- Chapter 2. Boots for My Birthday

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Published by W. Ross Ayers
Chapter 2 --- "Blood, Guns and Whores - An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco. W. Ross Ayers

Goto http://www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters, check out how this is cool and different. Or just buy the book to get the full rich experience of the illustrations, artwork, and story in the way it was meant to be experienced.
Chapter 2 --- "Blood, Guns and Whores - An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco. W. Ross Ayers

Goto http://www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters, check out how this is cool and different. Or just buy the book to get the full rich experience of the illustrations, artwork, and story in the way it was meant to be experienced.

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Published by: W. Ross Ayers on Oct 05, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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06/09/2011

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Blood,
 
Gunsand Whores
 
~
An All American Tale
 
of a Boy and His Dog 
Writtenand Illustrated by W.Ross Ayers
 An SFWC Co-Publishing Studio Production © 2011 by LND, inc. All rights reserved 
 
 
, is a coffee table novel made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco.W. Ross Ayers
2.
 
Boots For My Birthday
Rich and I rode with Mom in the ’72 tan Plymouth station wagon. Rich was in the front seat. I
was in the rear seat that faced backwards looking out the wide window.We drove down Grosvenor highway. I was six. It was early August the summer before mysecond grade year, three weeks before my seventh birthday.We passed a large white farmhouse. The white posterboard sign in the yard next to the gray
cracked road said “Free Puppies.”
 
“Mom, stop. Let’s look at the puppies!”
I screeched from the back seat over the sound of the radio and the rumble of the engine.
“I want a puppy for my birthday.”
 
“Oh, I don’t know Walt.”
 
“Let’s just look,”
Rich suggested.
“Well okay,”
she said as she took a last drag off of her cigarette and tossed it out the carwindow.She slowed the station wagon down to a stop and backed up pulling into the gravel drivewaynext to the large white farmhouse.
The Farmer’s wife had gray hair and a faded blue cotton dress. I liked her. She led us to th
ework shed where the puppies were sleeping beside their mother in a brown cardboard boxwith one side ripped out.
 
They were small fuzzy, black and brown, lying quietly next to their mother.
The farmer’s wife stood behind us to the side smiling. She
said the puppies were just now oldenough to be weaned and that two of them had already been taken.As soon as they heard us the puppies jumped up and swirled around our feet. There wereabout eight of them. It was hard for me to be sure because they all yelped and bounced jumping on top of each other.Rich and I played with the puppies picking them up; watching them and smiling.The smallest one had fur the color of coal, except for his legs. His legs were white and lookedlike tiny boots. He had a feisty look in his eye, hopping around even more than the others. Helooked at me with bright wide dark brown eyes, ran right into my leg bouncing up and downbiting the strings hanging from my cutoff jeans. His sharp puppy claws scratching my legs.I picked him up. He wiggled in my hands looking up at me licking my face with his tiny ticklytongue. I giggled and set him down picking up the next puppy at my feet.I sat down on the cold concrete floor letting the puppies run around me. The smallest onekept biting at the strings of my cutoffs and jumping on my lap trying to lick my face.
I could feel him saying, “
Me! Me! Pick me! I’m the funnest!”
 
I picked him up again; he wiggled and licked even more. I could barely hold him in my hands.He flapped around like a fish on the dock.
“I like this one,”
I said giggling more.
“Oh, he’s the runt, you don’t want him,”
 
the gray haired farmer’s wife said.
 
“He likes me,”
I said softly not even knowing what runt meant and not caring.
“Please, this is all I want for my birthday. You don’t have to buy me anything else.”
 
“I like him too,”
Rich said.
“You guys have to take care of him. I am not going to do it for you.”
 
“Okay, we will.”
 
During the ride home we talked about what to name him.

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