For good or bad I did not make it to the latest big rock show in town last night. I instead was asleep before I heard the final score of the Dope City sized ass whooping the Canucks laid on the Habs last night. My reward was to have a Sunday as big as a pizza pie.
In the morning I tried my hand at mixing up some banana sandwich bread in the bread maker. I have made my own bread for years, four loaves at a time, but I love the bread maker even though it only makes one lousy loaf.
Around lunchtime the Hammer and I went to look for some good stinky pooh to roll in. We found some aged like a fine Canadian wine. The Hammer coated the whole side of her face with some slimy pooh as we walked a dyke or two out in the farmlands. The other dogs we meet on the dyke like her all perfumed up like that. A mean looking dog came running up to her all snarly but just as soon as he figured out she smelled like a really, really old steaming pile of shit there was peace in the valley.
I had to throw her into the brown water. It made her smell even more evil. Those motherfucking farmers are the Kings of Stink.
I was going to head for home when I found another dyke trail nearby. There was nobody walking it so we checked it out. The farm houses were far enough away from the trail that I could have a good pee in the cool air even though there was no cover for me at all. The Hammer ran down into a wintry field and had a good run in the mud. She sure looked happy with all that mud underneath her and the pooh on the side of her face, her collar and her harness. I am thankful she has not started eating shit yet. I do not know how many times I have had a dog give me the I just ate some good shit grin and there is brown goo between their teeth.
We took a further detour to a corner of Steepleton I have not visited for years, the village of Byfield. We drove slow, real slow through the main street because church was just letting out. The parishioners had the look on their face that a church goer can only get after an animal sacrifice. They eyed the gawking outsider with bedevilled expressions. There was a house for sale near the church I would like to buy. I do not mind living near a church as long is there are no fucking bells attached to it. The Church of Animal Sacrifices for Jesus has no bell tower.
When I lived in Bally, back in Sliverville, the local Cannibal Church of Jesus had a big bell tower that used to torment me and my hangovers three times every Sunday even though it was better than a mile away. My house in Steepleton was chosen specially due to its remoteness from bell ringing motherfucking lunatics.
I phoned home before I got there. Sonja said, "I'll get the bathroom ready."
I said, "Yes dear," and mentally prepared myself to get even closer to the smell of my dog than I already was.