Bean and Betsy chase around the house. Bouncing off the sofa, bunching up the runners when they slam on the brakes. The race is on again. Damn dogs have got it figured out. Play hard, snore louder.
There’s a never-ending list of courses that I need to play. Yes, need is the correct word. I remember telling my golf bud to breathe in deep and smell the air at Royal Dornoch. We’re sitting on a bench, waiting for a group to clear in front of us. There is this small hawk, just suspended in the wind coming off the North Sea. All that mushy stuff you read about—the post-round whisky—turns out, it ain’t so mushy.
Don’t let the list end with me in my recliner.
I’ve got to get out again soon. Doesn’t have to be a golf trip. Doesn’t have to be in the Highlands of Scotland, even though that works. But it does have to be with the right people.
After the dogs wrestle, it’s pass out and maybe a fart or two. Satisfaction. They gave it their all. The next day, do it all again. Inspiration. Not necessarily the farting part.
Play hard, snore louder.
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