10 January 2016


The Hammer, like me, was feeling like a jockey crossing the finishing line aboard a 100-1 shot. It's the weekend, motherfuckers. Even dogs know that.

We took the up and down trail that runs about halfway up the sunny side of the mountain out back. A moderate hike made just a little more difficult with frost heaves and ice.

I keep in close touch with the Hammer on our walks. Make sure I do not miss her trying to tell it is time to go home to Sonja and her blanket near the fire. Her eyes remained bright like old relatives of yours after they have had a few drinks and not yet had the one they would later wish they had not asked for.

It is in incomparable country we live when the fog is not around to dim the play of the sun on thick frost sparkling like crazy diamonds everywhere you look. You can see for miles from lots of spots along the side hill when the leaves dead and decaying form frozen icing sugared chocolate flake chaos on the ground.

"You two have fun?" Sonja asked when we brought our dirty boots and paws inside.

We always do. A happy dog is a tired dog. Same goes for people as long as they have a home to rest in at the end of the day.

Put the two CDs of the Who's recent well received Hyde Park set into the player with the three CDs that make up the Drive By Truckers' killer Fillmore set.

Poured myself a whisky and coffee.

Watched the dog sleep.

Tapped my toes.


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