Each and every weekend I am reminded I should be fucking retired. The weekends are when the Hammer and I get to have long unhurried walks - the very attributes I hope to be able to describe my retirement with after I have told the sawmill to fuck right off one last time.
Like most dogs the Hammer knows the difference between workdays and weekends. On weekdays she might get a car ride, on weekends she expects one. In the car the Hammer sits in the back looking around at everybody rather imperiously as if she is being transported in the Popemobile and she is the one in the big hat.
The weather plays no role in her expectations. All she wants is to fucking go.
Yesterday, after we had walked about half way to where we would turn around and head back to the Beermobile she did not want to continue. She had caught wind of something, probably something dead, and feared the dead thing's killer might still be in the area.
I kept walking. I am not afraid of a motherfucking killer. The Hammer stayed with me, sometimes running ahead, as is her wont, but kept on reminding me that really we ought to get back to the fucking car because there is dead shit and maybe a killer nearby.
Dogs, and surely just about all other animals, have the good sense to head for safety when they think they are in danger. Humans, we walk right into the motherfucker.
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