LITMIR.BIZ

      As we hiked away from the house, Little Alfred and I launched ourselves into “The Lemonade Song.” Have we ever done it before? Maybe not. Here’s how it went.

      The Lemonade Song

      Yo-ho! Yo-ho! Yo-ho, yo-ho, yo-ho!

      We’re off to sell some lemonade, we know it’s going to be fun.

      We’re off to launch a business deal, in spite of the broiling sun.

      When the customers come, we’ll peddle our stuff

      While Drover and Kitty Cat sit on their duffs.

      The world can’t wait to buy ’em a cup.

      This lemonade business is going to be fun.

      We made our way north to the county road. There, Little Alfred hung his cardboard sign on the mailbox. Then he set the pitcher down on the edge of the road, and we waited for our customers to arrive.

      We waited. And waited. Alfred scanned the horizon for a cloud of dust that would signal the approach of our first customer. No one was rushing up to buy our product, it appeared, so we sang another verse.

      This summer sun is awfully hot, the sweat is starting to pour.

      The county road is empty, and no one has come to our store.

      Well, if nobody comes, then what shall we do?

      We’ll sit here and boil like venison stew.

      Or maybe we’ll have a drink or two.

      This lemonade business is going to be fun.

      The boy wiped a trickle of sweat off his forehead, sat down in the shade of the mailbox, and poured a cup of lemonade.

      “Welp, I guess I’ll try some myself.” He leaned his head back and took a long swig. I watched. His eyes brightened and a smile bloomed on his mouth. “Boy, that’s some good stuff. My mom sure makes tasty lemonade.” He put the cup to his mouth and drained it.

      I suddenly realized that my bodily parts had begun . . . my ears jumped into the Alert Position, my tail brushed across the ground, my tongue shot out of my mouth, and my front paws moved up and down.

      It was almost as though I was . . . well, thirsty and craving a drink of something wet and cool.

      Alfred noticed. “You want a dwink, Hankie?”

      Oh no, I wouldn’t want to be a burden and we probably needed to save the lemonade for the, uh, customers . . . but on the other hand . . . gee, come to think of it, I’d never tasted lemonade before. Was it, uh, pretty tasty?

      I licked my lips, swept my tail across the ground, and waited to see what would happen.

      He refilled the cup and held it under my nose. “Here, Hankie. You need a dwink, ’cause it’s awful hot.”

      Right, exactly, and what a friend! Didn’t I tell you we were pals to the bone? Yes sir, the boy had a special understanding of what it was like, being a dog on a blazing hot summer day.

      I initiated the Delicate Drink procedure and began lapping from the cup. It was a pretty small cup and fitting my tongue into that tiny opening proved to be no ball of wax, but I got ’er done. Lap, lap. Wow! The kid was right. His mother sure knew how to make . . .

      Oops.

      Maybe I got carried away and went a little too deep with my tongue. Or maybe I tried to fit my entire nose into the tiny paper cup. Anyway, it caused an accident. The cup slipped out of his hand and fell to the ground.

      He scowled at the puddle of fresh lemonade spreading across the dusty ground. “Dwat. The cup’s too little.”

      Right. The cup was entirely too small for the job, and it was nobody’s fault that our attempts to restore my bodily fluids had ended in failure. On the other hand . . . uh . . . what about the pitcher? I mean, the pitcher was pretty big, right? It had a nice big opening at the top, if someone were to, uh, remove the lid, right?

      I pointed my nose toward the pitcher and went to Slow Thumps on the tail section. Would the boy get the message? I held my breath and waited.

      His eyes went from me to the pitcher and back to me, then back to the pitcher. He scowled and chewed his lip. Then he said, “I wonder if . . .”

      Yes? Yes?

      “Hankie, would you mind dwinking out of the pitcher?”

      Me? Mind drinking . . . oh no, that would be fine. Why, any dog who’d turn down a drink from a pitcher would be too fussy for his own good, and this was not going to be a problem for us. In other words, could we, uh, pry the lid off that thing?

      He pried off the lid and gave me a big smile. “Okay, Hankie, sit.”

      Sit? Hey, it was time to drink, and could we speed this up a bit? I mean, the taste of lemonade was still lingering in my mouth and . . . okay, he was working on manners and obedience, so I plunked myself down.

      “Good doggie. On the count of three, I’ll snap my fingers and you can dwink.”

      Got it, fine, you bet, count of three.

      “One! Two!”

      Tense and bursting with excitement, I waited for the third count. It didn’t come. Instead, the boy turned his head to the east, toward the sound of an approaching vehicle. His finger froze in the air. “Oh goodie, somebody’s coming.”

      Oh goodie, I was dying of thirst and . . . okay, maybe I should have waited for the command, but what’s a poor dog to do? I mean, the boy had already given me permission to drink out of the pitcher, only he’d gotten distracted in the middle of his countdown. All at once, it seemed perfectly reasonable that I should . . .

      I, uh, stuck my nose and face into the pitcher and began lapping like there was no tomorrow. LAP, LAP, LAP. I mean, I had a suspicion that this offer would soon expire, so to speak, since we had a potential customer . . . LAP, LAP, LAP . . . bearing down on us from the . . .

      “Hankie, no! Don’t dwink my lemonade, not now!”

      LAP, LAP, LAP.

      Okay, we had a little struggle. Alfred and I, that is. After giving me permission to drink out of the pitcher, he had suddenly . . . what can I say? He’d changed his mind, I suppose, but try to understand my side of the story.

      It was hotter than blazes out there, right? And we’d both been out in the sun for hours and hours. Okay, for fifteen minutes. Alfred had taken his drink and he’d opened up the pitcher so that I could get mine, but then complications developed and he got sidetracked from the, uh, important issues of the moment.

      I lapped and slurped, while he tugged and pulled. “Hankie, get out of my lemonade! You’re gonna ruin my business.” At last he managed to pull my face out of the pitcher and got the lid snapped back on. He wagged his finger at me and said, “No, no, no. That was naughty!”