the mutterings of deputy dawg

We had four older chaps from Tennessee yesterday on The Castle. I caddied for a kindly little fellow, Steve, who was bemoaning the fact that they couldn’t get a beer before 10am on The Old Course yesterday. I kind of explained the strictness of our licensing laws which he acknowledged. He then went on to say that he couldn’t understand why the guy wouldn’t accept US dollars. However I thought I wouldn’t try and state the obvious on that one.
Now Steve was one of the most mellow and laid back blokes that I have caddied for yet. However there was a period, a few seconds, before he hit the ball, that something extraordinary happened. All I can say is that he induced in himself a kind of a semi-epileptic fit. His head would go into a set pattern of spasms and culminate with one huge twist of his neck at which point he muttered something to himself, I am not sure what, but all I can say is that it sounded like ‘deputy dawg’! And then he would hit and normality would prevail.
This made for a bit of interest on a human level, for which was not otherwise a noteworthy round. Well apart from the fact that Steve asked what sort of grass we had. Peter whispered to me, quite correctly, that it was green. Meanwhile Jamie declared confidently that it was a type of rye grass. And I am sure it is.

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