“And that’s another thing,” Herb said, with finality, “Changing that dang year on everything we write, every January. Goes against human nature.”

“Well I might just have an answer to your problem, Herb,” said Doc, sipping and dunking and stirring. “Why don’t we, here at the philosophy counter, pick out a year we like and stick with it? Date everything we do with that year. It might start a movement, you never know.”

Steve looked up from his coffee and twitched his voluminous mustache then twitched it again to make sure he got it right the first time.

“So Doc,” he said, “you’re saying we should just pick a year and live with it? Okay, so which year would you pick?”

“I think it would have more of an effect if it would be the same year for all of us here. My choice of year might not agree with yours, you know.”

“I was thinking of 19 and 87, myself,” said Steve. “Won the team roping that year. Got it on my belt buckle.”

“There you go. You got the right idea, Pard. Herb, how about you?”

“Dog died. In ’87, I mean. Just woke up one morning and there she was, dead. I couldn’t do ’87.”

“Sorry, Herb. Dud?”

“Haven’t got to that year yet, Doc,” Dud said. “It’ll be the year I finish that darn book.”

We all nodded.

“If that there favor-ite year comes in the bowels of the chicken yard, like it says in the Farmer’s Almanac, that’d be good, doncha think?”

Doc nodded. “And which year would that be, Windy?”

“Ain’t sure. Don’t have no Farmer’s Almanac at the moment.”

“Let’s get some more coffee and give it some thought,” said Herb.

“I’ll second that,” said Steve.

“Can’t,” said Windy. “Ain’t been firsted yet.”