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“Not too many out here today. Great,” Plug goes on. “I see folks on number-nine, tee-box. No one is in play on eight except for someone approaching number-seven, green, now. Yes,” he mumbles to his patient, self. “I’ll just drop one here. I’ll tag along behind dudes ahead of me. I don’t think the cowpoke ranger would send me to the caboose, that is, slap me in jail for cutting in when there’s a spot, open. Na,” he groans and he waves one, heavy paw.

Now, the persistent, friendly, soul walks along. Soon, 150 yards away from the pristine golf-green, the timid, beloved turtle places his shiny, white ball on soft, green turf.

“Boy these fairways look great,” he claims. Plug’s long, orange and brown neck extends like a barkeeper might peep at gunslingers trying to rob his saloon. “Sam Friendly’s boys have been doing a wonderful job of keeping the course, up. Pistol-sharp, it hasn’t hurt that we’ve had good rain the last few weeks.”

Plug lays his shiny golf bag, down. He sniffs and raises one finger to air. Then removing his six-iron, strong hands and arms take hold of his mighty club. He takes one, two, three practice swings. Then…


The errantly-struck ball rattles against wood. It knocks a beefy squirrel from a nut-filled limb.

“Txt, txt, txt.” On the ground, the dizzy, flea-bitten squirrel jumps and chatters.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” says Plug. “I apologize,” he says as the beady-eyed rodent pivots and races away.

Mumbling, Plug drops another ball to the smooth turf.

“Jeepers, I must get my act together. Bogey won’t ask me to be his partner if I can’t help him. Let’s see, I’ll…”

“Whoof, whoof, whoof!”

Misfit—the golf club’s small, white, muffed-up, happy-go-lucky pup—ponies up to Plug. Plug’s eyes gaze to the bitty dog.

“Misfit, what are you doing here, boy? You’re not supposed to tag along on the course.”

“Wynn, wynn,” the lovable puppy moans.

Long, silky ears flop. Misfit’s dingy-white fur brushes Plug’s thick, scaly legs. With eyes like bright-purple gooseberries, Misfit moans; and he jerks sideways to bite and tug Plug’s shiny, golf bag.

“Ah, Misfit,” Plug drawls. “Now go home, boy. Go home.”

Plug’s heavy foot pushes the soft puppy away; and Misfit spins, gathers steam, and he bounces back to Plug as if he was a yo-yo on a string.

“Now down, boy. Down,” Plug continues.

Misfit paws. He persists.

“Ah,” Plug moans. Corners of his wide, mouth turn, down. Staring to his new, beige golf shorts, Plug shakes his blocky head; and he wags his fat hand to Misfit. “Now look what you’ve done you rascal. My pressed and perfect pants are dirty, Misfit. I insist you go home.”

Once more, Plug pushes away with his stout, wrinkly leg.

“Onn,” Misfit moans.

Now, the sad puppy turns; and he trots toward woods.

Shortly, Plug proceeds.

Within minutes, with his ball on the green after having blasted a sand shot from a deep bunker lining the elevated, eighth green, Plug, smiles.

“Yes,” he gushes. He pumps his balled-up fist. “I’m within ten, feet of sneaking a sharply-breaking putt to the hole. I’ll make this.”

He pivots. Finding the sand rake, he feathers fine grains where he had walked; and he steps toward his treasured golf bag.

“I’ll need my smooth-as-glass, ace-in-the hole, putter.”

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