"Golpher Guns for Birdies"
Nearly plugged in deep, yucky grass meant for scaly reptiles and buttercups, alone, I stared at my muddy ball.
A hummingbird feeding at a rose bush turned and zipped my way. With one wing pointed to, likely, gator trouble, he squealed.
“Play it safe. Play it safe.”
The stream-lined bird was right. Linky also said sometimes life tries to snap at you, meaning, life gets ugly. Bad lies were ugly, particularly close to gators. Not wanting to lose an arm, I dropped a new, Nike-one, 2-club-lengths and lateral to my soggy, dimpled Callaway (which I did not touch). Relief cost me a stroke. But I was safe.
(Image of Golpher, gator, and hummingbird warning Golpher of green grass trouble)
Then, a pitching wedge to an elevated, bent-grass green brought me close. I made my 8-footer.
“Bogey,” I gushed. “One under.”
The wind had picked up and there were sprinkles. Having lost ground, I sighed. Yet, I immediately strengthened my resolve.
“Weather the storm,” I whispered. “Birds need bagging.”
(Image of Golpher on the green, putting, weather getting bad)
Over the rise and on the next tee I could see the leaderboard. Special scores, tournament results, and noted achievers were plastered in bold, red and black letters against a spacious, wide green board. An Aflame, red poodle, Ebee was a grinder. Like me, a pee-wee, she competed against boys, too. No one could miss her records. Twenty-two (5 under) and 3 aces on Dog-bone Forest’s par-3 captured attention.
My eyebrows rising, looking on, I inhaled. “Ebee, I’ll catch you, yet.”
(Golpher watching Ebee play golf, on golf course, club in his hand, leaderboard pictured)
So, as a dove flew, two minutes later I pulled my driver from my bag, stepped to the tee, set my ball, and swung.
The sparkling gem sailed. On the longest hole on the course I was back in Milk Bone business.
(Golpher on the tee-box, swinging with his driver, bag nearby)
On the green, it wasn’t a double-eagle, but I’d bagged another bird.
(Golpher sinking birdie putt on the green)