Saturday, March 15, 2014

A true story: Day or two before St. Paddy's, up early

True story.
A day or two before St. Paddy's Day, and I'm up early. Nothing new. Working on the fence today. Dogs know when, and how, to take advantage of me when the fence is down. 
Last night, that slow-living blue tick was a dark streak on bee line for neighbors spread.
"I'm too familiar," she said. "Expanding my horizons."
Fifty feet of pigwire will put a stop to that.
Cowboys build fence. Wish I was a cowboy.
So about 9:30 a.m., my knuckles are bloody already. I am thinking about beer, and it really is starting to get cold. Staples, stretch, line it up, watch your fingers. This was never this hard before arthritis, bursitis, tendentious and Johnny Unitas. My elbow, my back, my knees, and I'm not one to complain. But why am I thinking about beer, so early?
It is a little known fact that most taste is linked to what you are able to smell. I love the smell of beer.
Hops, When I finish this fence job, I am headed to the brewery.
"IPA will possess a nose of perfumey alcohol, fruitiness, and malt, although newer versions frequently overshadow the malt with strong hops."
Hopped up. I am not afraid of that. Columbian coffee in the morning, and India Pale Ale in the afternoon. But how are we going to make it to afternoon?
The damn fence is done. It is not even noon yet. Let the dogs out. Try to squeeze though there, you devious, sad-eyed, slack jawed, droopy-necked beast. Tight.


I think I will take a nap. 
Afternoon always has something else that needs done, It is past 4 p.m. when I load them in the back. Those dogs love a ride, and are righteously perturbed. Cars, trucks, cows in the field, pedestrians and God help another dog, when sighted. Bark, Bark, Bark, repeat ....
You meander down to the brewery.  "Stay here, girls. Watch  the back of the car while I go fill this jug up."
They are skeptical but, after all, he is driving.
Chaos, from entry, in the shadow of the hop tower.
"Are you in charge of this weather?" asked a vaguely familiar fellow on my way in, though the wind and snow..
"Cause if you are," he said. "You suck."
A leprechaun-looking fellow with green tail coat, green hat, and sad mutton-chop side burns, is in the way of my approach to business end of the bar.
"Do you have any objection to a leprechaun giving your friendly hug?" asked the green topped, green-coated, green-faced and friendly hugger obstructing the bar in front of me.
Didn't really want a hug, but he was determined. 
"I have whole lot hugs to dispense," he slurred, but he meant it. Because it wasn't St. Pat's until Monday. Just now getting into the swing of it. Two days more, and rare form already.
Sixty four ounces of hopped-up Elephant Rock Ale, I ordered, when finally asked. Medication for fence building. Returned to dog-guarded car.
Dogs asked, "Where have you been? Ladies in kilts, men in stumble, at least,we don't try to dye the river green."
Hate to say it it, but those droopy-jowled, sad-eyed, coon hounds  know what is going  on.  
But, of course, they are not in charge. Not until, the hops take hold. And even then ,,,,
What am I thinking about beer, so early? 
A day or two before St. Paddy's Day.... Mostly, it is the smell, I like. 
In the morning, I will be up early. 
True story.

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