Friday again.

There's a junction about five miles north on 95, just the other side of the river. On the east side is a bait shop, and on the west side, a little country store that sells the usual convenience stuff: baled hay, steel gates, pecan-shelling, horse vaccines. They also sell a pretty fair sandwich, which better explains the cars in the parking lot.

Much of the traffic on 95 results from people avoiding the congestion on I-35 as it goes through the metropolis to the west, so many visitors to the country store are not familiar with it.

Coming through the entrance, one of those strangers noticed the sign that says, "DANGER! BEWARE OF DOG!" that's taped up in the window. Inside he noticed old Zeke asleep in his usual spot on the floor next to the cash register.

He asked the store manager, "Is THAT the dog folks are supposed to beware of?"

"Yep, that's him," Fred replied.

The stranger couldn't help but be amused. "That certainly doesn't look like a dangerous dog to me. Why in the world would you post that sign?"

"Because," the owner replied, "before I posted that sign, people kept tripping over him.

Fred needs to change his sign: