It was a conspiracy against the apples
                                             among Gunnar, Lundquist and us.
                                         A silent conspiracy
                                              based upon the premise
                                                   of the axiomatic truth
                                                       that stolen fruit is sweetest.

                                         Climbing through the loose board pickets
                                              surrounding Lundquist's orchards,
                                                 we would rush our pre-staked apple victims;
                                                       and snatch them from their perches.

                                         At some pre-determined point, I'm sure,
                                              of our excited, panicky raid,
                                                  Lundquist would loose his
                                                        hound from hell, the intrepid
                                                              half-breed, Gunnar.

                                         I was never privy to the conversation
                                              that passed from the man to the dog.
                                         But the years have persuaded
                                              that there was an exchange,
                                                  possibly something like this:

                                     !Âtp;           "Stay Goonar, stay. Da liddle one iss slow.
&ne Ð<                    &nbswA†ibsp;                    !Âtp;      Ve leddem ged gloser to da fence.'" And then,
     !Âtp;                    &ne Ð<                    &nbswA†ibsp;"Go geddem Goonar, uff-da, uff-da.
            &nbt ›!nbsp;                    <\Îesp;               Bite dem liddle rubbers in da pents."

                                        Gunnar's mother, an indifferent mount,
                                              had once tendered herself to a bassett.
                                             (At least a bassets had made the best effort).
                                        Gunnar's chassis reflected that bent
                                              and even a sidewalk presented
                                                    the imminent threat of
                                                        becoming high-centered.

                                        With his great ears a-flap and a grin full of teeth,
                                             he was up for the game and made straight for the thieves,
                                                  his latter parts rebounding in the dust,
                                                      imparting authentic menace to his yarping.
                                        His front legs somewhat assisted his rear
                                            as he dog-tracked into the orchard.
                                        The grass rose higher as he neared the pickets
                                             and surrounded by green he grumped in the grass
                                                  awaiting a sound clue to guide his attack.
                                        I rattled the paper that wrapped the bone
                                            and watched as a tail approached, alone.
                                       He came to the fence and exacted his tribute,
                                             huffed a warning and waddled away
                                                 to bury it deep with the others.

                                        It was a triumph for the common class
                                            that a mere mongrel could discern
                                                 the fine line between
                                                     diplomacy and duplicity.