Heard the truck door slam first. Then the heelers barking. Was already halfway up the stairs when eldest son came to let me know the door was for me.

Almost always is.

A friend stood there, in his weather beaten and sweat stained cowboy hat, the faded and restitched down vest. Blue jeans with whitened holes from barb wire and the cracked and scuffed boots. He saw the outfit's truck out front, and seeing as how I was home, stopped by to let me know he'd moved into town. About three blocks away.

He's a little concerned about the adjustment to town living. Been living out on ranches almost his entire life, with a short attempt at living in a community for a few years.

A community of less than 15 people.

This burgeoning metropolis of almost 500 has him worried.

So, as we stood on our front porch, my stocking covered feet getting chilled by the shaded concrete, I bent down to peer beneath the branches of our front trees. And pointed to the gentleman catty-corner from us, out mowing his yard.

See that over there?

It's called a "neighbor".

"So I don't shoot it?"

Right. You don't shoot it.