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Trout Whisperer -Ya can’t hug him tight enough

In his own words, he is, four an walf years older. I asked him how he liked the plane ride, he said, we went wrooom and up as he launches his little hands in the air over his head.

Six-thirty in the morning two eyes being rubbed come up the stairs, he wants a hug, a blankey, and says, “I cant go fishhhen until I have sum fruit loops.” He washes them down with chocomilk, leaves a mustache to prove it.

In the boat between playing with a perch in the live well, singing happybirdday to a seagull, he noshed his little worm-dirtied fingers through three mini bags of chips, one regular Doritos, one regular Fritos and one orange kind of cheesy puffs.

We stopped on the roadside to pick some blueberries. I asked how he liked fishing. I got in reply, “Blueberries are better then fishhhen.” We drove off with Mr. Blue Face and fingers singing, happybirdday, to blueberries and after a few miles the backseat had gone quiet.

I glanced in the rear view mirror, he was buckled up car kid seat tight and out like a light until we stopped for his most recent request.

“Daddy, can we all get cheesegurgers?” His dad says, “That’s the next stop.”

He starts singing again, only this time it’s an unending chorus of oooyas, oooyas, finished with happybirdday to his dog.   


- The Trout Whisperer

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