Jemmy was his master’s shadow, always rode shotgun and was the best mouser around, clearing hay sheds of the pesky varmints…until he got himself bit by a brown snake.
“Cost damn near three grand, Farmer Mort moaned, but willing to fork out for anti-venom plus a spell at the vet until the day Jemmy was allowed home, raring to get back mousing.
Next day the mutt’s stone dead, skittled by a farm truck on the dirt road.
“Life’s a bitch,” lamented Farmer Mort.
Ain’t that the truth?