My boy Edzell is getting old. Losing weight (evidently the only male in the family capable of that feat) and getting more feeble every day. He’s mastered snoozing. But back in his youth we shared a common fondness for Corona beer.
Once upon a time I would have a cold one after work and if I set it down on the step next to me his tongue was down the throat of the bottle in record time. So much for that beer. He knew he’d won when I poured it on the sidewalk for him to lap it up.
A part of approaching the end of your days should be doing all the things that are considered “bad for you.” Seriously, who cares if the elderly woman in hospice wheels outside for a Camel and a shot of Jim Beam. Or if the diabetic has a final cupcake on their deathbed. Ed isn’t checking out this afternoon but he sure deserves a beer. So I went to the liquor store to get him a cold one. Six of the small bottles – the kind that wind up as salt and pepper shakers in seafood joints.
This morning, as the picture shows, I poured my boy a beer.
One sniff, one taste and he wandered over to the tree and started eating dirt (his latest weird behavior.) I guess dirt is better. As he did this I looked over to see Stormy trying to levitate and chase birds in the trees.
Now I’m stuck with 5 bottles of Corona and two really strange sheep dogs.
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