We were on our way to the river, the Hammer and I were. On the way down the windy hill that leads us to the quiet riverbank, where my dog likes to play, a chipmunk ran in front of my car. I do not like running over animals as much as most people do so I touched the brake, could not do much else, and waited for the thwap of the little rodent's body being crushed under my wheels.
Except there was no thwap. That is how it goes for chipmunks: some days you are lucky, some days you get hit by a car and eaten by crows.
I can relate to chipmunks, you see. They are a lot like working class people like me. The fucking boss is always trying to run us over in his big truck with the faulty brakes and only one headlight that works. That is why us workers join unions: the boss can run over some of us but that leaves the rest of us chipmunks behind to chew his fucking nuts off.
It was raining when we reached the river. Raining hard. A couple joggers, married by the looks of it, came by with their three big dogs. One of the dogs started to give the Hammer a hard time. "I hope he kicks your fucking ass," its female owner hollered at it. Lucky for the dog, the Hammer is not a fucking ass kicker. She sizes up things pretty quick. The big dog was no threat to her even bigger self.
There was a salmon by the shore going through its death throes. It would lay there, half exposed, looking like it was already dead for close to a minute then it would flap around a bit in the silt.
When the Hammer was young she would have raced up to the half dead fish and ate it as fast as she could. Now she just looks at the fish much as I do, impassively. The Hammer likes her salmon baked in the oven, stuffed with the fucking boss' nuts, washed down with a cold drink from her water bowl.
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