Note from Brandon: like every other semi-literate person known to peruse a Dollar Tree for some unneeded something, I’ll find myself clicking on a Sean of the South article from time to time. This somehow led me to the silly idea of writing a story of my own in the style of the venerable Sean Dietrich. I hope it gives you a chuckle.

A flake of tobacco clings to the corner of my host’s mouth after he deposits another pinch of Copenhagen behind his lip.

It is now late in the day, and the only thing redder than my sunburned ears is Theo’s plastic spit cup resting in the cupholder.

Theo is a name that didn’t seem to square with the man. Whenever I think of a Theo, my brain instantly follows up with Huxtable.

“Family name,” Theo explains curtly when asked. “I’m the third one.”

Theo is middle-aged. Leathery tan. Paunchy. His salt-and-pepper three-day scruff matches the hues of his head full of unkempt hair that peek through the mesh of his Caterpillar trucker cap.

Theo’s side-by-side jostles me side to side as we follow behind the herd on the move toward a watering hole. The open pasture, dotted with an occasional sweetgum tree, stretches out from us in all directions. It’s an expanse I can best describe as the Great Plains of west Tennessee.

To break a five-minute silence, I toss out, “Beautiful animals, aren’t they?”

“They sure are, Mister,” retorts Theo, who forgot my name seconds after our introduction. “Useful too. They’ll demolish a patch of kudzu in a couple of hours. And one of ‘em could feed a medium-sized town if processed right.”

Theo is the proprietor of Theo’s Triceratops Ranch. He shepherds close to a hundred head of the prehistoric beast on a sprawling grassland of a couple thousand acres.

“They look like mean ol’ boogers, but most of ‘em are scared of their own shadow,” Theo expounds. “Brain only as big as a walnut. They can get a little rowdy during mating season, but they don’t much bother nothin’.”

The original Theodore started this unusual venture back in 1946 with only six triceratops, a few muddy acres and some grit in his craw. The farm’s been handed down through the generations ever since, through times lean and fat.

“I remember my granddaddy tellin’ me how he nearly lost everything during the foot-and-horn disease outbreak of ’62,” Theo shared. “Bank was a couple of weeks from takin’ over before they announced the vaccine. Lost three quarters of the herd, but he hung on.”

Later came Theo Jr. who was the boisterous one of the family lineage. The old folks throughout a five-county area can still recite the benediction from his paid radio spots, “Horns of three? Y’all leave ‘em to me.”

He also might be the only man in history to lose two dinosaurs with one ill-timed bet during a game of seven-card stud.

Luckily, clearer minds prevailed the next morning, and an agreement – the terms of which have not been revealed to this day – was worked out to restore Theo Jr.’s ownership.

Eventually the task of raising these gentle behemoths fell to the currently reigning Theo. The ranch’s fate beyond him remains a mystery, though.

“I just don’t reckon I’m the marryin’ type.” It was the only time his voice betrayed a trace of emotion throughout our day together. “I don’t guess you’d be interested in learnin’ how to be a ‘topsman.”

“Nah,” I respond sheepishly, “I’m probably too far along in what I’m doing to switch horses now.”

Despite the novelty of the livestock, Theo’s Triceratops Ranch is fast becoming another cliché of the old way of life withering in real time. One more agricultural footnote in a civilization propelled by corporate jargon and hedge fund margins.

The sun hangs heavy on the horizon behind us as Theo drops me off at my truck parked near the fenceline of his vast prairie. I roll down my window as he swings open the gate for my departure.

“Theo, there’s just one thing that’s been gnawing at me the whole day. Didn’t the triceratops die out in the Late Cretaceous Period around 66 million years ago?”

He ponders the question for a few beats as he spits another bead of brown saliva onto the now-soaked paper towel occupying the bottom of the Solo cup.

“Well, Mister, I guess I’ve never been a fella that paid real close attention to history.”

“Fair enough,” I reply.

I pull forward and turn right onto the narrow ribbon of pavement that would steer me back to a modern, Quaternary Period world.