There was a young man that lived with us growing up in Loveland. He’s not so young now, in fact last I saw him he didn’t have a lick of hair on his head. I’ll call him Jon P. He was one of my Dad’s friends brother, and for various reasons, he lived with us until he finished High School.
One day we were hauling hay from the field and stacking it. My Grandpa (we called him Bummy because as kids, my brother and I couldn’t say grandpa and he became Bumpa. It was gradually shortened as we got older.) Drove a 55 Chevy pickup, and it was sitting in the field. My Dad told Jon and Andy (my Mom’s brother), "one of you go back and get Bummy’s pickup”. They were both about 15 and just learning to drive so the race was on. They ran like rabbits being chased by coyotes. Jon beat Andy and grabbed the door to the pickup. Unbeknownst to the boys, Bummy's old dog Zeke was laying underneath the pickup. No one touched that pickup without Bummy being there when she was around.