Golden-orange sunlight fades behind the Colorado Rockies, casting a warm glow on a battered pickup as it crawls along a narrow, pothole-ridden road. Loose gravel spits from its worn tires, dust trailing in its wake. The truck rattles to a stop in a clearing dotted with dry grass, the engine ticking as it settles.

Inside the cab, a weathered white man in his late sixties leans over and cranks down the passenger window by hand. His skin is rough, sun-baked, and lined with years. Riding beside him is his faithful Basset hound–velvety ears flopping, forehead wrinkled, jowls sagging. The dog’s brown, droopy eyes light up. Nose twitching, he sticks his broad snout out the window, sniffing the breeze.

The man opens the door, and the hound leaps out with surprising energy, trotting ahead, turning a few tight circles, then pausing to wait. The man groans as he swings his scuffed, pointed-toe boots to the ground. He slams the door shut, rolls his shoulders, and twists his neck, easing out the stiffness.

He circles to the truck bed, grabs a faded baseball with loose stitching, and gives it a solid toss. The Basset bounds after it, tail wagging like a metronome. Over and over, the ball flies and returns, until the sun sinks lower.

When it’s time, the man sets down a silver dish and fills it from a gallon jug. The dog drinks greedily. The man pulls a beer from a small cooler, cracks it open, and leans against the truck, drinking deeply.

The pickup rumbles back the way it came.

At home, the man eases into a worn recliner. The Basset circles once on the carpet and curls at his feet. The TV murmurs in the background. They drift into sleep.

And in perfect harmony–perhaps after all these years–they both let out a soft, contented sigh…followed by a matching pair of quiet farts.