Pete was a farmer. He didn’t really like farming, but his pa was a farmer and pa passed the farm down to Pete. As it goes, Pete wasn’t a very good farmer, because he didn’t enjoy it, and the inevitable downward spiral ensued. Pete would wake up early, be on the tractor all day, and wouldn’t return until late, hot, tired, sweaty, dirty and as poor as the day before. After dinner, Pete would sit on the porch with a cold beer and the latest issue of Tropical Travels, and wish he was somewhere other than here. Dogs have a lot of empathy. Benson could feel Pete’s despair, and being a coon hound, he would begin to howl.

And, this is how life went for Pete and Benson, day after day, night after night...  except on Friday. On Friday, Pete would make his list and drive his dad’s old red truck into town for supplies and a lottery ticket for Saturday’s drawing. Benson was never a bother. He loved sitting in the truck's bed in town and being fussed over by all the passers by. "Hi Benson. Who's a goo'boy? Who's a goo'boy?" A pat on the head, a scratch behind the ears and sometimes a light snack would follow. Maybe a bite of a left over Aunt D's burger when Benson was lucky.

Pete almost didn’t buy a ticket on this particular Friday, being the 13^th and all, but absentmindedly, out of habit, he asked Becca at the Piggly Wiggly for one anyway. Friday the 13^th came and went without incident, as did Saturday, and the lottery numbers were picked at midnight just like always. Pete got up Sunday morning and started his routine, forgetting about the ticket until he was already in the Southeast corner of the Bok Choy with the Bok Choy mite poison spreader. “What are the odds, anyway?” he muttered.

Back at the house for an iced tea and quick bite, he spied the ticket there on the counter and logged in to see the numbers. 14 – 22 – 44 – 45 – 49 – 52 and the Powerball… 03. He glanced down at the ticket and back at the monitor, and back to the ticket and back at the monitor… 14, 22, 44, 45, 49, 52, 03…

“BENSON! WE’RE RICH!”

Hell, Pete hadn’t even bothered to keep up with the lottery’s totals. Apparently, nobody had won big for a while now and the Jackpot was 188 Million dollars. Pete signed the back of the ticket and started looking into the next steps. Two weeks later, Pete was sitting on just over 100 million dollars. (after theft)

He stopped getting the tractor out of the barn every morning. He gave dad’s old red truck to Carl’s boy, who’d been eyeing it since he was 8. He hired a local real estate agent, who thought he was nuts for wanting to let the farm go lock, stock and barrel for half its appraised value, and he hired a real estate agent who specialized in island properties.

Two months have passed, and we find Pete and Benson relaxing on the porch of a small cottage looking at the ocean on a beach of an island of undisclosed name. Pete, sipping on a beer as usual and Benson laying beside him on the weather worn boards of the porch. A humid, salty breeze rustling the palm fronds. Benson looked up a Pete and he could feel Pete's contentment. Pete was happy and Benson was happy for him. He laid his head on the boards and closed his eyes without making a sound.

Pete looked down at the silent old hound and said,

“Well, Benson. I reckon, no farm, no howl.”