This week, boys and girls, I have two yarns for you: one that's quite sharp in my opinion and the second, well it kind of bites, as the saying goes.

But on with the first adventure story - if one can call it that.

Once upon a time - three weeks ago to be exact - I borrowed Big Glenn's truck for a visit to Billy Hill Pine on Main Street in our fair berg.

You see, a few weeks before Mrs. Gennings and I had ordered a custom made bookshelf from Billy Hill. They do good work so they do.

At any rate, the shelf was finally ready and what with the Pontiac Overland not being too practical for transporting furniture much bigger than a step-stool I opted for Big Glenn's truck.

Ron, the president and chief executive officer of Billy Hill - nice fella so he is - was kind enough to help me load the shelf and tie it down. Nothing quite ruins your day as a piece of wood furniture flying out of the truck on the way home!

After Ron and I made our perfunctory goodbyes, I was off like a sailor on shore leave, bound for my abode and an afternoon of libations, while I transferred books from the old, crappy shelf to the nice, new shelf.

Finally at home, I had to untie the twine Ron had used to secure the bookshelf. Now let me just say the man really knows how to make knots. I couldn't get the one he expertly twisted to release for all the tea in China, or Great Britain for that matter.

"Hmmm..." I said, using one of my more favourite terms when stumped. "Guess I'll need to get a knife to cut the string."

Now manly men - the kind who own Kenora Dinner Jackets and Sudbury Dress Boots as every day garb - carry pocket knifes but not this fella, who is of the ascot-wearing ilk.

Nope. Much too decadent, so I am. Men like me use steak knives, much to the chagrin of our wives.

"I don't understand why these knives won't cut a steak. The sets not that old," Mrs. Gennings has remarked from time-to-time.

Now in case I've lost you, I used a steak knife to cut the twine and then proceeded to unload my cargo.

And somehow, along the way, I set the steak knife down on the bumper of Big Glenn's truck.

Of course, you're thinking the steak knife was subsequently lost but oh no, faithful reader, far from it.

Instead of getting lost, the steak knife had somewhat of an adventure.

What happened was the next day Mrs. Big Glenn took the truck for a spin. She went here and there and all the way to God Knows Where.

And you know what?

That night, while out walking our quadruped Ivory, Mrs. Gennings and I walked passed where The Outlaws - Big Glenn and the missus - hang their hats.

And there, in the driveway, was the truck - with the steak knife still resting on the bumper.

"That's odd," said Mrs. Gennings, picking up the knife and then knocking on her parents' front door.
Mrs. Big Glenn answered.

"Is this yours?" Mrs. Gennings asked.

Mrs. Big Glenn shook her head and at about the same time the synapses in my noodle started firing.

"Oh crap," I said, not so eloquently. "That's our steak knife dear. You see what happened was..."

The funny thing Mrs. Big Glenn is reportedly a real two-wheel driver with vehicles that have four tires.

Go figure, huh?

And now, as promised, a story that really bites.

Yep - you can't possibly make this stuff up.

Picture it: Sunday morning. Mrs. Gennings and I are in the kitchen reading Saturday's edition of The Post and Ivory has just come in from her morning trot around the grounds. Moments pass and then Ivory snaps at a bug.

"Oh gross," Mrs. Gennings said. "She ate a fly."

Several minutes pass and there is more snapping.

"Good gravy, Ivory has fleas," Mrs. Gennings squeals, standing on her kitchen chair and pointing at the dog.

Being the good man that I am, I leap into action. Upon examination of the dog's tummy, I see bite marks and small flies on the inside of the sliding door.

"OUT," I roar at Ivory, who appears rather perturbed more than anything else.

I race to the pet supply store. They arm me with flea spray and shampoo. An hour or so later I'm in the yard bathing the pooch. I comb her too. I don't find one blooming flea.

And slowly it dawns on me: they weren't fleas - they were black flies!

"I knew I recognized those buggies on the sliding glass door," I said, or something to that effect.

Ivory, bathed and dripped in anti-flea goo, seemed none the worse for wear. Truth be told, I think she enjoyed all the attention.

Yours truly was just glad it was a false flea alarm.

And so faithful readers we're done for another week: one story that was pretty sharp and another that
bit.

Oh yes, aren't I the witty one!

Michael Gennings is a reporter for The Stayner Sun. Feedback is welcome at mgennings@simcoe.com.