Before Henrik and I headed for the racetrack this afternoon I took the Hammer for her mandatory exercizing. (I bet you motherfuckers are bored to tears with dog walking stories. Too fucking bad. It was a wise relative who suggested I write about my dog time and I am not done.) As we walked the Hammer nosed an orange and black caterpillar making its way across the path in search of a good place to become a butterfly. She did not kill the furry worm. Scared a little caterpillar shit out of its ass though.
Further along the path a hawk swooped over. I followed its trajectory in the sky until it landed in a tree and started humping another hawk waving its big attractively smelly pussy in the air. They fucked, fucked, fucked faster than you can say fuck, fuck, fuck and then the male jumped off and flew to a nearby perch. Some people believe in watching groundhogs' shadows for signs of winter's end. I watch hawks fuck in the trees. Spring is coming early to Dope City.
Henrik did not win as big a pile as he hoped for at the track today. We bet enough on an 11-1 shot at the last minute to drop its odds to 8-1. We cashed the win ticket but got a little carried away with the booze after that and fed a lot of the proceeds of that winning ticket back into the game. It is not like Henrik really thought he was going to load a new Harley into the back of his pick-up to take home to 69 Mile House anyway. He looked as happy as a new Harley owner when he looked at the pile of beer we loaded into the back of my car on the way home to Steepleton.
"The horses can go fuck themselves Beer," Henrik said as we carried his ghastly Budweisers into the house. With a couple dozen safe in the fridge and a few more dozen on the back porch he lit a British Columbian cigar. "Let's get shitfaced."