Thoracic Animus (16)

    
   "Thoracic Animus (16)"

   Mutt and his depressed dog had hitched it down to Texas, loving the Longhorns and Bowie knives, Big, everywhere.  At a local, bucolic gas station with a diner, near the key-locked bathrooms, his depressed dog mystically leaped into Mutt's soul-like essence, mutating his negative blood further into a werewheaten-terrier, the little, white angel dog, like out of the Book of Tobit, morphing him into a greater gravel-sniffing destiny, as if by magic, though not, a form of love united, like these here States of America, and Mutt knew he didn't need the Full Moon to morph into a 150 pound werewheaten-terrier; therefore, he sang:

The joyous werewheaten don't know defeating--
The enduring werewheaten gives merry greeting.

   Next, getting his clothes, or rags would be wiser, to fit again, Mutt went into the diner, sitting at the bar-like area, and after eating some eggs and toast, a bush pilot with a wiry nose cranked up the conversation, after introducing himself as Doc.

DOC
I'm headed down to Antarctica to get involved in the mysterious war.   Got a B-25 Mitchell that can make it to Cape Horn; next, land on the Southern Pole.  I'm on an idealistic crusade.  You interested in following old Obi-Wan, though I get my name from Steinbeck's Cannery Row, published in 1945.

MUTT
I've got fur that can endure; plus, fangs now, why not?

DOC
Gotta love blondes; then, we'll CLEAR PROP!  

MUTT
Every man's dream, of course.

   Doc smiled, and gave Mutt a slap on the back.