Drunk of the dog park update:

Today I got off work early to run home and take care of the doggie. I cracked a beer and jogged down to the park, be-vested and still in a tie. It was a perfect afternoon to have a stout with the sunny walk and cool breeze. I ran into a neighbor Robbie, who was in an awful motorcycle accident 20 years ago. His speech is very labored, he in effect sounds like Frankenstein, but he also is confined to a wheel chair, yet always in good spirits walking his shitzu, Pazo. Pazo’s Mohawk has grown out, but it was a good look for him. I always try to make time to talk with Robbie, because, frankly he and I are the 2 people that nobody wants to talk to and Robbie is always in a good mood. And I found out why today, Robbie handed me a little brass box with a Scorpio on it, wondering if his birthday was coming up, I opened it to find his stash. “Mehd-hic-kull,” he said and smiled. “Sure it is,” I said. “Gets the job done, ” he said, (I translated that one, I can understand him pretty well) and I toasted his weed with my beer. I thought, “yes, another person who doesn’t care about rules, bartenders and the physically disabled.” Look out squares. And look for Robbie and I at the dog park with Otis, Pazo, me with a scotch and him with a bowl.

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