I ask him. He's getting nasty now. It's probably not the right thing to say. Now we've generated in his head the picture of an unfriendly rooster, and Bob's trade gets even more suspicious. I try to head off the explosion.
Roosters can be fun.
I study his face a minute, then shrug. To tell the truth, no, but that's not to say that there are none out there. The tears have started now. See, Bob had to relocate Germann to his son's house in Houston because the dog had come to theorize that trucks and cars roaring along the caliche road out front were mere playthings for him to chase and dodge. I'll never see him again.