Firewater

Having a bottle of old whiskey in the house is probably not a good idea for me. For us. Last night Bud asked did I want a shot of whiskey which is kind of like asking the dogs if they want a stuffed little lamby to shred, ear to ear. I mean, maybe they play coy and say no since otherwise they look too into violence but yes! yes we do, in fact, want one or maybe three. I told him maybe we should sip it since it is nice whiskey but he looked at me briefly like I was crazy and said, "I can't sip whiskey," Good point. Neither can I. He gave me my shot and I threw it back in front of the fireplace and then breathed through my mouth for a couple of minutes. I like to fancy myself something of a cowgirl but it won't cut it to drink whiskey that way. Then Bud - and I wish so badly I had a picture of this - assumed his whiskey drinking position which means: he walked over to the hallway entrance facing me, one foot in front, one behind, arms raised kind of like karate kid and shot the shot. His mom says he wouldn't make much of an alcoholic and you'd agree with her if you saw his whiskey face. Someone might as well be twisting a screwdriver into his thigh.