This weekend I abandoned my pooch for a day and headed south to the mountains to ski. It was grand. Once I got my legs under me I was able to leave the masses (and their long lift lines) behind to focus on the blacks. I am the mogul king. Except when I eat it. And then I'm more like a mogul jester.
To make it up to Jake I took him sledding on Sunday. We went to Fisher's Hill, a historic battlefield nearby, where gladly no historians made an appearance. Jake and I and the cows had the whole winter-scape to ourselves to construct several hundred yards of slalom run. With a sled I could lie down in, I could zip down the hill with Jake in hot pursuit. Towards the end my trip was so fast I would finish each run with that raucous cackle that betrays "oh my god I'm going to die on this thing but this is oh so fun." I had to flail all four legs outside the boat to slow myself down before I slid into the brambles and a ditch.
Then Jake got a hot shower and a hot meal. Pretty dandy for a Sunday. Plus I made the best Sundy brunch ever. Exhibit A:
To make it up to Jake I took him sledding on Sunday. We went to Fisher's Hill, a historic battlefield nearby, where gladly no historians made an appearance. Jake and I and the cows had the whole winter-scape to ourselves to construct several hundred yards of slalom run. With a sled I could lie down in, I could zip down the hill with Jake in hot pursuit. Towards the end my trip was so fast I would finish each run with that raucous cackle that betrays "oh my god I'm going to die on this thing but this is oh so fun." I had to flail all four legs outside the boat to slow myself down before I slid into the brambles and a ditch.
Then Jake got a hot shower and a hot meal. Pretty dandy for a Sunday. Plus I made the best Sundy brunch ever. Exhibit A:
Plus my friend in DC informed me that my underwear are still hanging from the rafters at my favorite bar. Long story. Suffice to say: I'm famous.
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