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Fido Looks Forward to Festival Season

Hurry up! Hurry up! No time to lose!”

“Good golly, Fido, what in the world has got your goat this morning? Don’t you want to have your leisurely breakfast while I pull things together? Can’t you just chill?”

“But they’ll all go home! They always do! There is no time for the wasting!”

“I’m not sure I am following you, you old red lug. Who’s going home?”

“The visitors!”

“We go through this every year. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course not. I’m a dog!”

“Suit yourself, Old Boy. I’m going have my own breakfast, whether you want yours or not. This is the Festival Season in the mountains, Fido. The visitors aren’t going anywhere until after Labor Day, or after school starts, whichever comes first. It’s not like, say, the Fourth of July, where they come in for one weekend and then are gone right away. These are visitors for the long haul.”

“I love Festival Season. I love everything about it.”

“That makes you unlike the humans.”

“What do the humans have to do with it?”

“As you may have noticed by now, Fido, humans are strange creatures. They are not as straightforward as you and your fellow hounds. Festival Season is a good case in point.”

“I love Festival Season.”

“Humans do, too, at least they say they do. They work all year to make things right for the visitors, then complain—a lot—when the visitors show up. It’s a strange phenomenon.”

“Visitors bring their dogs, though. That’s good.”

“They sure do. I’ll be you like that.”

“Brand new pee-mail! And their humans bring lots of biscuits. They put them in their funny bags. Sometimes they put their dogs in the funny bags, too.”

“Once more, My Friend, I’m having trouble following you exactly. Funny bags?”

“You know, the bags they put on their butts! The other dogs in the neighborhood call then Butt Bags.”

“Aha! You must mean fanny packs, right? Well, yeah, they do have them, that’s for sure.”

“That’s why they walk funny.”

“I haven’t really noticed that, Fidey-O.”

“It’s when the humans go to the festivals, most of them walk home sideways. Some of them look like they’re going to fall down. I figure the Butt Bags give them balance.”

“Fanny packs, Fido, not Butt Bags. But I get your point. See, Fido, the Festival Season visitors are trying to pull a fast one on themselves. They may come up here to the mountains and say they’re here for the clear air and the cool temperatures. They may say they are here to ride bikes, hike trails, and fish for trout. But they’re really not.”

“I have noticed that the trails seem awfully empty during Festival Season.”

“Fido, that’s because many humans are here to get drunk. They don’t hike. They don’t ride bikes. They don’t fish. They drink alcohol. Why, we ourselves, in just our own little mountain town here, have more wine walks, more wine tastings, a big beer festival, a big tequila festival, more beer festivals, and an end-of-season wine festival. It’s kind of one big drunk-a-thon.”

“Is that why the human visitors are so hard to understand?”

“That’s pretty much it, Old Boy. They slur their speech and get really loud. Listen: When you come down to it, a blues festival is a blues festival. Four beats and a diminished seventh. Throw in a lot of beer, though, blues music sounds great!”

“What sounds great to me is the sound of a Butt Bag full of biscuits.”

“They are called fanny packs, Fido.”

“Well, I don’t care about any of the other stuff. I love Festival Season.”

“Funny thing, Fido, but I do, too. It’s one of the best things about living in the mountains.”

Main article photo by: Photo by George Shirk