All his life he’d wanted such a bird dog, and finally he was getting one, though problem was, he could only have half of him and dang if he could decide which half he wanted.

Two old friends, been longer together than shoe leather, out huntin’: The morning had been good, they’d found birds, and now comin’ ten o’clock they’d stopped for tea.

Billy Rains sat loosely hunched over a hickory stump, a short, stout little man, his old hat pushed back on a balding white head. He was chewing peanut butter nabs and sippin’ a Pepsi Cola. While he studied with a covetous eye the big rip-rap pointer pup they called Speck. ‘Nell, he wasn’t exactly a pup – Speck – he was comin’ three, but he wasn’t altogether responsible yet neither. He’d still knock a covey now and again when his parking brake didn’t engage.

Nonetheless, he’d found three of their four bevies already, and let them shoot into three. While the old dogs, Mack and Liz, honored his stand. They were none too happy ’bout that, but more and more, it was a regular thing. They’d tried to dodge the notion but been reminded by the constabulary they were fully mortgaged. So they suffered the obligation, but damn sure despised making the payments.

Claude was wholly unsympathetic. “You don’t like it,” he told them, “git on out there and find ’em ‘fore he does.”

But that took some doing.

“Uhh-huh,” Billy figured. By the time he hit his prime, Ol’ Speck was fetching up to be one more bird-finding, pin-up, pure-T, humdinger sun-uf-a-bitch. Maybe the best dog they ever had together. And they’d had some powerful good’uns.

They’d started him together as a pup, he and Claude, like they did everything else together, and Speck was as good as his dog too, though actually he wasn’t. He was Claude’s. Outa Claude’s good Gypsy bitch and Doc Gallamore’s old dog Ranger.

So…well…it was like Speck was his and then again, he really wasn’t. Not paid and proper. When all his life he’d wanted such a dog, outright and completely his own. One high and fancy an’ known far and wide. One folks’d say, “You wanna see a real burd dog now, you need to see that Speck dog o’ Billy Rains’.”

He liked the sound of that. That had shine to it.

It didn’t seem fair that Claude had had several brag dogs, and he’d had none. And here was Speck comin’ up all high and handsome, and Billy wishing mightily he was his free-and-clear. It irked him some, Claude knowing that an’ not said a word about it. It had Festered long enough, he decided.

Claude Blankenship rested on the ground, his back against a white oak tree, gun laid alongside, his long legs stretched and crossed in front of him. Finishing an oatmeal cookie and drinking a chocolate soda, while Lizzie sat at his shoulder begging the crumbs. He was a bigger and taller man with a weathered mustache chewed on the ends, fun-loving but with naturally somber features.

Billy Rains couldn’t look at him directly, swallered hard, said, “You knowed, I’ve taken a likin’ to young Speck here. You’d might as well just let me buy ‘im from you. Jus’ once, I’d like to have me a good dog all my own.”

And there it was, laid right out on the whittlin’ table.

“Nope,” Claude said without a stutter.

Billy’s jaw dropped in disbelief. He never reckoned Claude would actually turn him down.

“Claude Blankenship, you mean after all the miles and years,” Billy spluttered, “all the times . . . you won’t sell me this one dog.”

“Nope.”

Billy couldn’t believe his ears. First he was hurt and then he was mad.

“I won’t sell ‘im to you, but I’ll give ‘im to youu,” Claude said.

Billy felt the ire draining from round his ears.

“Well now, he thought, that might be okay. But then, he thought again, folk ‘s ud say, “You know, Claude Blankenship wuz the one gave Billy that ol’ dog.” No, dammit, it just sat better if it was a business deal, hand-to-hand and man-to-man. So they’d see Billy Rains was that gooda judge o’ dog flesh to begin with. Besides, much as he’d like to, Speck was too much dog to presume on Claude’s good graces.

“I couldn’t let you do that,” Billy said.

“Well, why the hell not?” Claude asked sharply.

“Well … I jus’ couldn’,” Billy said, nursing his injured pride. “I’d not have no papers on ‘im showin’ he’uz really mine.”

“Aw, hell,” Claude said, I’s gonna give you the papers anyhow.”

“Uhgh-uhh,” Billy said, shakin’ his head. “He’d not be bought paid and proper.”

So they sat there for a time, while Claude drunk his chocolate soda and Billy pouted, ’cause Claude hadn’t just sold Speck to him straightright. Meanwhile he studied the big pointer pup some more. The more he studied him, the handsomer he got.

“Tell you what,” Claude said abruptly, “I’ll give you half of him. “That’s fair, ain’t it?”

Billy thought about it a minute. It wasn’t stock, hock and brisket, but it did preserve his dignity.

Claude smiled, leaned over, stuck out a huge ham of a hand. Billy hesitated a proper moment, then shook it.

Secretly, Billy was elated. After bird season, they’d take ‘im to Grand Junction and he could win the National Championship too.

“So which half you want?” Claude said soberly.

Billy’s face screwed up like an aerial view of the Rockies.

“Whadaya mean, which half?” he said doubtfully.

“I mean which half?” Claude repeated. “Head er tail, front er rear? Like if I was to choose heads,” Claude said, “you’d get tails. I’d have to keep him fed, but … well, you know what you’d get to do. An’ like the other day, when we’uz working ‘im on put birds, and he’s all rared up head high ag’in the wind, but his tail was loose and flaggin’…well, my half was lookin’ fine, but you’d need go do some work on yours.”

Claude was stifling a grin.

“Claude Blankenship, you goshdamned, black-hearted son of a buck,” Billy stuttered. He knew he’d been suckered, and he wanted to be mad again, but caught himself trying to laugh instead.

“Well, before you walk off being so damn smug about it,” Billy said, “you might just consider who’d get to collect all the stud fees.

“And since most the dog paraphernalia goes on the north end, you can begin thinking about who’s going to be buying all the check cords, orange collars and ‘lectric training gear. We kin start with that new Garmin trackin’ and trainin’ collar. It ain’t but $800 bucks.

“What about that?”

“Well,” Claude surmised, “jus’ this. I’m figurin’ I’d have the thinking end, and anywhere my end goes yours has got to follow. I get to do all the handlin’ and hollerin’ ‘n pickin’ the places to hunt.”

Well, that’s jus’ fine, but when you holler ‘Whoa!”’ Billy said, “and he ain’t stopped, it ain’t gonna be ’cause o’ the south pole. So don’t go blamin’ me no more like you usually do.”

“Yeah, well, unless you kin force train an O-ring to clamp and hold a training buck, guess whose end gets to fetch and keep all the shot birds?” Claude said confidently. “It’d be a damn funny sight seeing one retrieve back’ards.”

“It’ll be damn funnier when I train ‘im to bring them all to you,” Billy said.

“And by the way, when we git home, you kin fix the wire where he’s been chewin’ and clawin’ up the kennel run.”

“Yes sir, Brother Rains,” Claude agreed, I’ll damn sure do that, ’bout the time you get ‘im to quit eatin’ rotten possums, gittin’ the runs and fartin’ when it’s too cold to roll the winders down.

“Don’t know it matters,”Billy said. “I ain’t sure it’s always him you manage to blame it on no-way.”

Both men sat quietly for a while. Goin’ halves, Billy decided, was shot through with more problems than Granny had gall bladder pills.

“Claude Blankenship,” Billy said finally, “are you gonna sell me that damn dog er not?”

“Yep,” Claude said laconically.

“An’ I git the papers on him too?” Billy said.

“An’ you git the papers on ‘im too,” Claude agreed.

“Top er bottom?”

Billy’s jaw clenched. “What the hell you mean, top er bottom?”

“Well, if you want the bottom, you got to git it back from Doc Gallamore.”

Billy’s face was turning red again. “See,” Claude said, “I got the top, and Doc’s got the bottom.”

“Of the damn regis’ration papers?” Billy spewed.

Claude nodded dryly. “We cut ’em in two. He kept half of ’em for the stud fee.”

“You cut the damn regis’ration papers in two?” Billy repeated disbelievingly.

“Yep,” Claude said. “That way neither of us…”

“Never mind,” Billy huffed, jerking his old hat down on his head, fussing to his feet and grabbing up his gun.

“Let’s jus’ go on burd huntin’. I’ve decided I ain’t got no damn interest in no damn bird dog o’ yours no-how.”

A few days after Billy picked up a long white envelope at the post office. In it were Speck’s regis’ration papers, signed over to Mister Billy Calvin Rains, with a note due for five dollars.

Also in it was a note from Claude: “Nex’ time you go see Ol’ Doc, he’d be pleased if you’d let ‘im know ahead o’ time whether yer ailment’s north er south. ‘Cause if it’s south, he’s sub-let that half of his practice, and he’ll hafta make sure they charge yee his haf o’ the referral fee.”