Dear Story tellers, What is the most memorable experience of your life? My Grandchild, Natane asked me this question several weeks ago, and although, a few came to my mind, recallng this one that took place coming down a 70 mile straight lumber road from Idaho into Colby, Montana in 1963, will always bring nostalgic tears to my eyes. At the bottom of this 70 mile slope I was going over fifty and did not see the right angle turn at the boottom of the road before I came onto it. Before I started this cross country traveling sales job, selling films to TV stations across the Northen States. I promised myself for my own safety, that if an animal crossed my path on the road, I would not swerve my car at high speeds to avoid hitting the animal and thereby lose control of my vehicle. This was a sensible decision I had to make, no matter how much of an animal lover I am. Just as came barreling down this desolate logging road in my gold convertible 1962 Coup Deville, I cut the sharp corner, drifting to the far left shoulder of the road in a cloud of dust. I hit my accelerate to increase the traction of my tires too avoid spilling into the desert shrubs. And in an instant a young dog ran right in front of my vehicle. My heart stopped beating as I ran straight over the doom animal, having conditioned myself to do so in that given circumstance. As I slowed the car down to a stop about a hundred yards away. I pulled over to the left shoulder, and looked through my rear view mirror back to where my victim should be laying on the road with bloody broken bones. But the road was clean of any objects. I slowly began backing up my car, hoping to find the injured dog and give what care would be necessary. As I continued to check my rear view mirror, suddenly the dog popped out from the roadside desert shrubs onto the center of the road. 'That dog will surely get hit by the next car coming around that sharp curve', I thought to myself. I stopped the car not 50 yards away, not wanting to frighten the animal back into the miniature jungle of thorny sage brush which was impossible for me to enter, and alighted from my car slowly. In my childhood, I had acquired a lot of experience recapturing the many family dogs that often broke away from our yard, so I knew before hand it was going to take time and patience before I could get close to grab, what looked like a lost dog. Two hours later after some aborted attempts with the young pup running back into his cover of a thorny tangled sage brush jungle, and a lot of sweet talking cajoling, he came close enough to smell my opened hand beneath his nose, and with one swift move I had him by the scuff of his neck, dangling in the air with his teeth trying to snap at my hand holding him from above; he couldn't have been more than five months or so old. Getting a rope around his neck from the trunk of my car took time as he seemed to settle down. I tied him to a sturdy shrub; rolled down the top of my convertible, closed the windows, and gently and cautiously half pulled and half dragged the dog into the back seat. A mile or so down the road I came a gas station in front of a general store and as I refilled my near empty gas tank after that 220 mile trip from the last gas station, I asked the gas attendant, if he knew whose dog it was in my back seat. He took one look and said, "That ain't no dog. It's a Coyote. They ain't no good. You might as well throw him away." I had caught a wild Coyote with my bare hands. And I never threw Mr. Colby the Coyoty away! Now you tell me your most memorable experience? Black Sheep, did I lull you to sleep?