A fine autumn day, the Clubhouse Crew is busy. Friends rake brilliantly-colored leaves from their shiny, green-grass lawn. Shagbark hickory, sugar and red maple, white and water oak trees dot the landscape. Like sun-tanned fairies, leaves float with the wind and skirt across well-kept grass. With a change in season, friends work diligently to remodel and expand their play space. The club’s popularity has drawn-in neighborhood friends who’ve pressed the confines of their home in the trees.
“Ka pow! Ka pow! Ka pow! Ka pow! Ka pow! Ka pow!” A beaming hound-dog, shouts.
“Fast on the draw
Fast to play
I’ll pack my pistol
We’ll work today.”
Bogey Brown barks to friends. He smiles. With his tool pouch about his waist, he draws a nine-inch framing square from his canvas bag, and he fires as if his tool were a Smith and Wesson six-shooter that had gone plum loco.
“Ha, ha,” Lippy laughs.
Companions, chuckle. They shake heads at their cowboy-friend who has come to work the rodeo.
“Hand me that hammer would you please, Putt?” Chip points. He grins as his fluffy, white, black, and brown-striped tail twirls over his fuzzy head.
Chip removes new hardware from his nail pouch. He places an eight-penny nail against a piece of one-by-six piece of wood his cowpokes apply to an extension of the clubhouse.
“I’d get it Putt; but I’m in a good position on this ladder,” Chip says. “I’d rather not get down.”
“Not a problem Chip. I’ll help. I’m glad to do it,” Putt says ambling, then reaching for Chip’s endearing tool. “Um,” she moans, stretching.
Her tiny, brown tail twirls; and she scampers up two rings of the ladder and…
“Here, Chip; and be careful.”
“Right,” Chip mutters.
Putt nods. “Okay. I must finish with sandwiches and drinks, now. The girls are helping.”
Hardy clubhouse workers diligently repair and build.
“Thanks, Putt,” Chip says. “I’ll take my weathered but trusted and true, Stanley hammer. It’s been good for two solid weeks of work. We’re near finishing.”
“Fine, but, shortly, please stop,” Putt continues. “Have a sandwich. I’ve cold lemonade for you,” she says pleasantly, smiling. “Mr. Drover has a nice, new shop down the street. He deals more drinks than Ben Masterson could deal winning hands. I’ve heard he’s shot more buffalo-bull-talk than you can believe and his lemonade is the bomb.”
“I don’t doubt that for an instant, Putt,” Chip says nailing. “I’ve had their lemonade, smoothies, colas, and more; and I…”
“I’ll agree with you five-hundred percent, Putt,” Shank says. Twirling blue-gray fins, he goes on. “Clyde Drover has the best drinks and burgers in town. He’s a cowpuncher. He knows how to brand his beef and whet his customer’s whistle.”