“Ya gonna eat that?”

Model-Ts. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“Obviously I need to take my dog to more of these car-shows,” I thought to myself. “She’s a people-dog. She loves socializing with people.”
“Oh, what a pretty dog. Can I pet her?”
I took my dog to Fun-days in nearby Bristol, NY; very rural.
It had a small car-show that attracted maybe 30-40 cars.
It attracted my friend Jim LePore (“luh-POOR”), a widower like me, who I share dinner with once per week.

LePore’s Camaro.

LePore, like me, is a car-guy. He bought a newish SuperSport Camaro to show.
He doesn’t drive it much; just to shows. He named it after his late wife.
“An Irish-Setter,” said a woman wrapped in a plaid blanket sitting next to her husband’s MG-TD.
“Ya don’t see Irish-Setters much any more.”
“I know. We had an awful time finding this one.”
That was nine years ago, and my wife has since died.
“This dog is a rescue from Ohio,” I added.
“SCHLURP!” The dog gave the lady a big kiss.
“Oh, what a well-behaved dog. I wish I could still have one, but I can’t.”
“Well-behaved if she thinks she’ll get food.”
“I especially love chicken-barbecues. Lots of drippings to hoover out of the grass!”
“All I have is candy,” she said.
“Nope. That’ll make her sick. Been there, done that.”
We continued walking around.
“I see your dog is taking you for a walk,” a guy said.
A 350-pound Harley-momma in short-shorts zeroed in on us, flabby thighs bigger than my torso.
“Get hold of yourself; she wants to fondle your dog.”
“I had an Irish-Setter once.”
She cuddled the dog.
Watch the dog, not the girl — particularly the legs.
We passed a Pontiac Tempest, ’63 I think. It had the 421 Pontiac motor.
The 421 Pontiac was once the scourge of NASCAR. Race-cars built by Smokey Yunick, driven by Fireball Roberts.
A 421 in such a small car?
In 1963, the Tempest was still tiny, not much bigger than a Corvair. I had forgotten the 421 Tempest.
Not far away was a tiny Chevrolet Chevette with with a SmallBlock wedged in. I don’t think Chevrolet made such a car — it was probably a backyard special.
Maybe the 421 Tempest was too.
A row of Model-T Fords fronted the show — the only picture I took (above).
Fiddling a camera and a lunging dog at the same time is near impossible.
My dog found a guy cooking hamburgers and hotdogs on a grill. “Would your dog like a hotdog?”
“Sure, she’ll eat it.”
He cut a charred hotdog in half with his spatula.
CHOMPF! Gone in a second!
“How about the other half?”
CHOMPF, again!
“How old is your dog?”
“12,” I said; “but still a handful.”
I purchased a hamburger, and hiked back to LePore.
We put the leash-retractor in his Camaro’s trunk so I could eat my hamburger.
I was followed and watched continuously.
“Ya gonna eat that? Ya gonna eat that? I could eat that!”
BOINK! She almost snagged it.
Finally down to one small tidbit, I gave her the rest.
CHOMPF! Gone in a second!
“That dog gets more attention than my car,” Jim said.
“My uncle was born in ’66,” a girl said. “He’ll be 50 this year, a 1966 model.”
“1966 was the year I graduated college,” I interjected.
“Didja hear that? 1966 was the year I graduated college.
I’m a 1944 model; not postwar baby-boom, for which I’ve been loudly excoriated, because in 1944 the war was still on.”
“Well I’m a ’76 model,” she said; “a Bicentennial baby!”
Poor girl; she missed Detroit’s postwar turkeys and Elvis, etc.
“I hafta leave,” I told LePore. I’d been there probably an hour. Can’t say I wanted to, but I forgot the dog’s water-dish.
I remembered her jug of water, but nothing to drink from.
We hiked back to my car, the dog pulling the whole way.
“Oh what a beautiful dog!”
An older lady got tangled in her leash and became angry.


Scarlett at four — now she’s gray in the face. (Photo by Linda Hughes.)