A Gen-u-wine Hunting Dawg

     Pop has been rising early each morning to go on the great man-hunt for the elusive wild turkey--that brilliant, bearded bird that struts boldly from May to March, then for the month of April suddenly becomes as rare as the Ivory-billed woodpecker.  He is on his sixth day of stalking ole Tom with no luck. He has donned apparel of leaves and twigs and feathers and branches, has risen with the waning moon, has crept quietly through field and stream, and has yet to bag the bird. He has gobbled and purred and clucked and yelped til he's blue in the face, and that bird-in-the-bush has yet to become a bird-in-hand.

     I think I can solve his problem.  It suddenly donged on me that what he needs is a gen-u-wine, purebred, thoroughbred, spoiled rotten, fashion conscious, tempermental hunting dawg. There ain't nuttin that'll pull that old bird out of the woods quicker than a cute little ball of fluff all decked out in camouflage. Soft, curly fur glistening in the early morning sun, fluffy little ears gently blowing in the dawn breeze, poodle pom-poms peeking out from underneath a mossy oak ensemble--it would get the attention of a buzzard, not to mention a highly intelligent turkey. I guarantee ole Tom will come shooting out of the woods in a spit, squawking and gawking and strutting, trying to figure out just what in the dickens that thang is, just curious enough to fly in for a look, just dying to check out my hunting dawg. That's when Pop will have his chance, his Big moment,  and BOOM! Ole Tom is in the bag.  No more getting up in the dead of night, no more cold mornings shivering in a lonely blind, no more irritable afternoons stewing and sleeping and squawking on the phone.  Problem solved. He can thank me later. 

     I offer him none other than the finest hunting dawg around: a one-of-a-kind, gen-u-wine, pure-bred, nattily attired, perfectly groomed, questionably trained turkey poodle-- my very own Mr. Big. As I said before, he can thank me later!