Ninety-Eight-Pound Weakling

Fancy Chicken Coop

Yesterday, we got Porterized. The Porters are friends of Anne and Bill, who live in Ann Arbor and also have a nearby cabin. For happy hour, we went over to their place last night. I made guac and brought chips. They were a hit. Cousin Anne made Manhattans. The six off us were seated on the beach around one small table that was delicately balanced on the sand. Still, we were doing OK, until the dog showed up. Some guy was walking down the beach, with his unleashed dog. The dog made a beeline for our table, ran around it and then proceeded to knock it over. I grabbed the chips and guac, but my Manhattan ended up in the sand. The dog owner did not slow his pace, offer an apology or even acknowledge the commotion that he and his dog had caused. He was a big and I felt like he had just kicked sand in my face, like I was some ninety-eight-pound weakling. In truth, I am closer to two ninety-eight-pound weaklings. It could have been worse. No one got shot. The pictured new chicken coop belongs to the Porter’s neighbor’s.

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