By Hobo Hudson

As you know, I’m allowing Dad to use a small portion of my backyard for a garden under a sharecropping agreement. I supply the land, and Dad supplies the labor, seeds and everything else necessary to yield a rich crop, and we split the produce 50/50. Since I don’t eat vegetables, and Mom doesn’t eat meat, I have worked out a trade with her. She gives me her share of the meat, and I give her my share of the vegetables.

When I made my morning inspection, I found the first of my squash was ready for picking, and so I grabbed a great big bag and “almost” filled it up. I clutched it between my teeth, raised my head and started carrying it to the house. By the time I got up the steps onto the sun deck and into the porch, I couldn’t hold the bag up any longer and had to drag it across the porch, across the living room and into the kitchen where I collapsed from exhaustion.

After recovering somewhat, I weakly yapped at Mom to come and work out a deal with me. She took the bag and put it on her scale while I proudly barked that my half should be worth a least 10 steaks. Mom shook her head and said, “Hobo, you don’t even have enough squash here to get a smell of the knife when I cut the steak.” I looked at Mom and barked, “Just let the bag lie there. It’ll get heavier.”