This time of year, in the scant hour of daylight available after I race home from work, I like to throw my gear onto the middle of the kitchen floor, chug a fucking beer and take the Hammer for a car ride to one of the many nearby trails that enticed me to moving from Sliverville to Steepleton in the first place.
Today the sun warmed my green lumberman as soon as I stepped from the car despite the sun's rapid decline into the endless sea. Only a fool would be inclined to think spring is on her way to the summer dance early but the warmth was enough to get me thinking about baseball before the Super Bowl has even been played.
The Hammer, who enjoys rainless afternoons even more than me, sprinted this way and that until her nose attracted her to a farmer's field. Before I realized what was happening she was rolling in a field freshly fertilized with Steepleton honey. I yelled at her to, "Get the fuck out of the stink," but she only batted her innocent eyelids at me and kept on rolling.
When she was done she caught up to me walking towards the sun. She was honey coloured and smelled like a meeting of the Steepleton Conservative Party constituency association when Randy White is the guest speaker. I was in too good of a mood to be unhappy with her and she was too happy to give a shit what I thought anyhow.
I met someone and her dog I see occasionally on the trail. Her dog was entranced by the Hammer's perfume. After I warned her why she should not pet the Hammer she said, "Bertie got into the same field yesterday. I bathed him real good but he still stinks."
When we were done our walk I looked up from the trail to see the bellybutton moon rising above the snow capped mountains in the east. It was not going to be as pleasant a drive home as the views I enjoy in the winter before smog hides the mountains like Osama bin Laden.