Sonja does not really like it when I am home while she is working. Rest of the world thinks just like Sonja does. No one is grateful to the dogfucker for fucking the dog.
In the summer I could attend to the garden a little, maybe cut a little lawn. Make it look like I was not fucking the dog all day long. This winter I do not even have any snow to push around to make it look like I am doing something.
"There's laundry that needs doing and floors that need vacuuming. And put away your fucking clothes," were the last words I heard from Sonja last night.
I did as I was told. Did some dishes too.
Then I took the dog for her walk. It was quiet, just the hum of the highway in the distance, the rattle of a tractor engine left running outside a barn, four trumpeter swans squonking like Don Cherry in the hockey rink sky. The Hammer is going to miss her mid-day walks when I am back to work in the mill.
I am going to miss them too.
Our walk done, I drove to the store. There is always shit to buy. Coffee, laundry soap, pork chops, green beans, baking powder.
From there the liquor store. Always like going to the liquor store. The liquor store is church for me. Jesus died for somebody's beer but not mine. Did not need any but I strolled down the whisky aisle. Looked at the bottles, each one triggering warm memories from my past.
Then to the beer stacks. Henrik, my old beer drinking buddy now living in 69 Mile House, had tipped me off to Anarchist Brewery's Scotch Ale. There was none there. The Ministry of Liquor Distribution had let me down.
The cider is right there in the middle of the beer. Okanagan, the heroin of ciders, was on sale. Two and a half bucks off per case. I bought two. Should have bought more.
I am going back tomorrow for more.
2 comments:
That is some kinghell recycling you also did that day also Mr. Beer.
Of the wordsmithing variety I mean.
Chimo Gazz. Next year I hope to recycle my walking the dog stories better than ever.
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