Ended up going camping after all. All thanks to a drunken cell phone call. Three hours later Sonja, the Hammer and I were by the beach, in the trees, out of the motherfucking city.
On Sunday night, as I walked my dog around the campsite, I ran into an old dealer of mine. "Beer," he greeted to me loudly before quietly adding, "How the fuck are you?"
He was camping with his grandkids. Had well over two hundred grand worth of gear in his site. Truck, trailer, atvs and, more importantly, some top notch single malt. Did not have to ask him if he was still in the business. Wished I never knew to tell you the truth. Clean sheet motherfuckers like him like to keep themselves that way.
We did not exchange Facebook pages. Just a knowing glance or two drinking a couple glasses with his trophy girlfriend.
Before we returned to the city I took my dog for one last walk. We came to a point in the trail where my dog refused to go further. She does not do that much. There was something ahead, something real close. She pointed it out for me just as it rose from the forest floor. Great horned owl. Fucking beast of a thing.
Camping is great. Camping with a dog is the greatest.
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