My little dog, Chico, is puzzled by some of these stories. He’ll figure them out. Eventually.

Bette in Moultonborough described honeymooning in Alaska. On a bus tour, the guide urged them all back on the bus because he’d spotted a bear coming out of the woods. In Alaska they have grizzlies — not harmless black bears like around here. So the tourists rushed the bus. But one man, a photographer lagged behind. You know how they do. Everybody was safe in their seats. Here came the photographer. Followed by the bear.

The drive shut the door in the hapless photographer’s face. People were stunned. “Let him in!” they cried.

“I can’t let him in, “ the driver said. “Not with a bear behind.”

Oh Bette! She’s a leg puller from way back.

Some farm humor for your reading pleasure.

Dick Wakefield — always quick with a story — told about his Aunt Dot Wakefield, who had a long and storied career including secretary to the selectmen and state legislator. But as a young woman she was hired to keep the books at a local farm. The amount of milk from each cow was meticulously entered by the milkers — the date and the number of gallons.

Dot noticed that some entries included the capital letter S. What does the S stand for, she asked a farm hand. He stumbled and stuttered but Dot persisted. Finally he said, it means Served.

Dot’s next question, “Served what?”

Not sure how or if he handled that one.

Every year, about this time, I visit the Laconia Friendship Club. What a great gang of folks, always ready to laugh and tell a few tales.

One that came up this time around was the old Maine (or NH) story about the lost tourist who asks the native, “Where does this road go?”

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the native answers. “Been here nigh onto a hundred years.”

Finally, and this is from West Townsend, Massachusetts. Yup, I dared cross the border to Massachusetts a couple of weeks ago. It was fine.

This story had been told to me last time I was in Townsend, but this time around, I got more detail. Gotta love a story that’s in specific place and populated with specific people well known in the community. Herc told the story. (If you don’t know Herc, you should — he’s a pistol.)

Gary Stockwell and his boy Norman were walking home from the fair. The boy was draggin’ a red balloon. This was in the days before helium. The boy had to go to the bathroom real bad as they were passing Pamona Atherton’s place. She had just put in a new outhouse and Gary was sure she wouldn’t mind if Norman used it in this emergency.

So he did. But unfortunately he dropped his balloon down the hole. Gary was not inclined to fetch it out, so they went on their way. Unhappy about the loss of the balloon but c’est la vie.

That evening, Pamona also used the outhouse, and, after, when she looked down the hole, she spotted that red balloon and thought she’d passed something maybe she should have. She called Doc Churchill, who came right over. He looked down the hole. Saw the red balloon. Poked it with a pitchfork and it popped.

Doc turned to Pamona. “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “But amazing all the same. Pamona, I think you and I have been blessed with being maybe the only people ever to actually see a faht.”

And on that note. Happy fall.