Had I known how awful Lenwood’s dog, Burt, was at physics, I might not have just stood there and let him run me over. But I did. I stood in the middle of a dirt road and let Burt take my legs right out from under me.

Lenwood bought Burt for an undisclosed amount of money hoping to get a bird dog out of the deal. What he got was Burt. Never a better natured critter walked the Earth, but a bird dog he was not. Lenwood worked with him and worked with him, but try as he may, Burt never pointed the first quail, much less retrieved one. He never fetched the first dove or duck. He wasn’t much for obeying commands, either. He considered the words shouted out of Lenwood’s mouth suggestions, all of which he ignored. Thank goodness Burt didn’t speak English, else some of the language Lenwood directed at him might have hurt Burt’s feelings.

I’ll give him this, Burt looked the part of a bird dog. He was an English Setter and a pretty one. He looked like a living, breathing Rorschach test – mostly white with black patches. I’d put him around sixty pounds or so. When he ran me over, it felt more like one hundred sixty pounds.

That Burt was a complete failure as a hunting dog didn’t bother Lenwood a bit (or Burt for that matter). He thought the world of that dog and brought him along on all our outdoor excursions as if there was an actual contribution Burt could make to the outing.

The only thing I can think of that Burt was good at was running. And run he could. Einstein said nothing can exceed the speed of light only because he never saw Burt running flat out.

The time Burt mowed me over he was running flat out. Lenwood and I were scouting places to put up deer stands. As usual, he brought Burt along. We met on dirt road that divided a corn field. No sooner did Lenwood open the door of his truck then Burt hopped out and charged off down the road.

“Burt! Come back!” Lenwood hollered as if that would do any good. Burt, being Burt, ignored the suggestion.

In no time Burt was practically a dot on the horizon. Then, for reasons known only to Burt, he turned around and started barreling back our way. By then, I was standing on the road alongside Lenwood watching him close the distance between us. And close it he did. He was flying.

“Surely, he’s going to stop,” I said more to myself than Lenwood. He was coming straight at me like a spotted missle. I looked Lenwoods way, but he was staring fixedly at Burt.

Lenwood said something, but I couldn’t make out what, because that’s when Burt slammed into my legs. Down I went. Hard.

For his part, Burt dashed off for a few yards slowed to a trot then ambled back to where I was still sitting on the ground. He seemed delighted that we were on eye-to-eye level. He tried to lick my face but had to settle for my hands as I pushed him back.

“Good boy,” Lenwood told him obviously delighted over the story he had to tell when we got back to work on Monday.

In my defense, at the time of my mowing over I didn’t know how bad Burt was at phsyics. He apparently didn’t know two objects couldn’t occupy the same space at the same time. I tried to explain how things worked, but Burt wasn’t interested.

I even tried to explain Schrodinger’s cat to him, but all he wanted to do was chase it.