PUPPY DOG CAPITAL OF THE WORLD!
by Matthew Sanborn Smith
The people of Andover plant their dogs about a month after the first thaw. The kids in school will fill a milk carton with soil and stick a single farm grown embryo in it, bringing it home for their moms when the tiny hairless snout first sprouts in time for Mother’s Day. The farmers, though will throw a good eight to ten zygotes in together about a half finger deep and repeat, spacing holes about two feet apart from one another. Water and sunlight and a hell of a lot manure and come August you’ve got yourself a field of thriving dogbushes. A single bush will bear a whole litter, little puppies squirming at the end of their fur covered, bony branches.
The farmers try to maintain a quiet farm, but every now and again, some rambunctious teenagers will drive by, honking away in a stolen car and the fields erupt with high pitched yipping that will drive a man mad as it doesn’t quiet down until dusk. Come September the pups are finally ripe. Migrant workers from Vermont come in for the picking. They pluck each soft, warm puppy from the bush and toss them over their shoulders into great wicker baskets strapped to their backs.
From the farms most of the yield is shipped to western Connecticut for use in cocktail parties (hors d’œuvres), but the locals keep the pick of the harvest for tasty pies.
The tails are shipped to New Jersey for the making of little boys.