The first thing I remember about that morning was the dog. It was a mutt, a mangy mutt, and though my friend Danica would correct me and explain that mangy refers to mange, a skin disorder that did not afflict this particular dog, I stick by my description. It mixes alliteration and poetic license like a, well, like a mangy mutt.
Nothing else seemed amiss as I rolled into the caddie yard, and even a dog nosing at the door to the cart barn didn’t qualify as something amiss. I knew the dog. His name was Duke, and he belonged to Rick Gilbert,