So I had this great dog once. His name was Bosco. He was an Irish setter. Little dumb, super joyful, but loyal to the end. I loved him like my own son, and we had a mutual respect and admiration born out of the deep bond between a man and his hound.

I had this truck, too. An ‘87 Ford F150. It was mottled red, worn down, with a bench seat and Mexican blanket. The way trucks used to be, before the academics came down from their ivory towers and demanded things like carpet and being able to survive a crash. I loved that truck, too, the same way a man loves a worn-down rifle passed down from his grandpa. Every shift of the dicky four-speed was an affirmation that all was right in the world.

One day, everything changed.

I had started the Ford and left Bosco inside it. I went off to close the gate to my compound behind me, so we could get on our way. Suddenly, the Ford started rolling away. I chased after it, thinking that touchy parking brake cable had finally snapped. I could see Bosco nervously jumping around the cab, and I was afraid for his health.

My parking brake theory evaporated as soon as I heard the sound of a perfect rev match and saw the left turn signal engage. That son of a bitch had stolen my truck.

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I never should have taught him to fetch stick.