he, the brother-in-law, had just enough time to jump down from the stile and race for his driver's side door before Sid returned. I don't think I've ever seen anyone who wasn't intent on stealing the vehicle raise that much of a sweat trying to unlock a car door, before or since. He glanced a sad glance across the dirt road at me in my cab, a cold beer washing down my throat, a smile, a very satisfied smile, on my lips.
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And then there's Buck: Great, large, gorgeous Buck; Best and most loved of all the river dogs; First of my river dogs; the dog whose name I've bestowed upon every new canine acquaintance since (if not otherwise introduced by his or her Person by given name). Of course, his name isn't Buck either. At least I don't think it is. I call him Buck, because he looks like I imagine Jack London's "Buck." Buck's a big dog, very big, large. His origins are clearly mixed, but beautifully so. My guess is he's half Malamute and half German Shepherd, with perhaps some hint of a large, gray wolf in there somewhere, deep inside. His eyes are blue-gray and green; one of each.
My first meeting with Buck was a nervous affair. 
I had fired up the gas grill and unwrapped a pair of tenderloins when he appeared walking down the road, slowly, toward me. The nearer he drew, the more slowly he came. When he arrived at the truck, he paused, then disappeared behind it. In a moment he reappeared, rounding the front end. He had dropped his front shoulders slightly, his mouth was open, his teeth visible. There was no mistaking the "grrrrr" that emanated from deep inside. If his tail had moved before -- I'm sure it hadn't -- it didn't move now. His deep-set, mismatched eyes were, at once, on the sizzling steaks and me halfway between him and them. As he stepped closer, a cautious step at a time, the "grrrr" became deeper, the tail, if possible, even more stiff. He clearly wasn't an animal prone to kidding.
I was more than a little concerned. I love dogs and can seldom bring myself to fear them, but it seemed likely that whether he went for me or the meat, I would not escape unscathed. I was imagining a violent and bloody immediate future when he took another step forward...and then another.
And then...he walked between my legs, stopped half way through, moaned a low, gratified moan, and began to undulate as though doing some Midwestern, farmland hula in advance payment for the bit of steak to come. (Or, maybe he just had an itch that required scratching before he dined.)
