After I let the Hammer loose on the dusty trail to search for fresh horseshit to eat, roll in and then maybe puke up later I took off my Bob Marley t-shirt, hung it out of my back pocket and followed behind her. After our disastrous winter and second rate spring I am more appreciative of the sun than ever. Too bad the motherfucking sun has become only a little less cancerous than the kind of tobacco we do not grow in Dope City.
In the farmers' fields to our left and right corn and other vegetables poke greenly out of the dirt like baby marijuana plants. On the welcoming pink blossoms of sweet wild roses bees were working like millworkers before all the mills closed down. And swoop-swoop swallows were gathering enough bugs to keep me from having to swat them.
The trailside grass shimmered and sang in the wind like a stoned church choir. A saddle horse ran over to the edge of its enclosure to watch the Hammer splash in the farm scum water.
A little further along we encountered a man and his two farm scum water soaked dogs. I greeted him, "Hey motherfucker!" He barely managed to form the word, "Hello," in reply. Sometimes I think I am the last English speaker in Canada.
When we reached the spot I like to sit and rest a spell in the cool shadow of a mountain I gave the Hammer a few dog goodies then reached into my back pocket and pulled out my whisky flask. The stainless steel shone like wet chrome lit up by police cherries. I unscrewed the lid and aimed the whisky straight into my brain like Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider. 10 year old Arran. It's fucking great to be alive.