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In the Gray Brush

Eloise, my mom, milked cows for a round faced dairy farmer named Bob Krump. He was having a bad year. There was a pile of black and white calves freezing near the corner of an unused corral. A few bears had been coming from the gray brush behind the house to eat calves. They had started reaching over the pens and helping themselves to live calves. They had knocked down part of the barbed wire fence in the misty grey brush. Bob sent Eloise into the brush to fix the fence. The Doberman and I came along. My mom carried two fence posts, a digger, and a tamper, and I carried her 30-06 rifle. The rifle was almost as tall as I was. The Doberman bounced all over the place sniffing and peeing on stuff. The ground was squishy. I saw little raccoon hand-prints in the mud. My mom steadily stabbed the digger into the muddy ground. The dog plunged into a large gray bush with a growl. The bush shook and horrible noises came out of it. Mom grabbed the 30-06 and aimed it, and the clicking of the bolt was loud. The Doberman pranced out of the brush with a garder snake hanging from his mouth. He gave his head a shake.
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