Rodent Ridge Puxatawny Muskrat Rouge is that rarest of wines that is made in miniscule quantities and is almost impossible to obtain. True aficionados prize it for its unique essence of "Muskrat spray" that makes it stand apart from the rest of the many highly sought after bottlings from around the world. None of this "blueberries" swill for those in the know.

After several false leads and dozens of wrong turns, we finally found our source for the only six bottles available in the Bay area, a portly scoundrel with beady little eyes, named Marvin. After much haggling and vituperation, we settled on a price, made our purchase and took our leave, grumbling and bitter about the astronomical sum we'd been forced to part with. Our only consolation was in knowing that we'd now be able to placate our sulking host.

Unfortunately, this transaction made us more than two and a half hours late for our appointment with Milan. When we arrived at the facility where he makes his wine, the doors were locked, with only a hand written note taped to a window that read as follows:

"Thanks for being punctual. I'd sooner kiss John Lahart than let you taste one of my wines, you rat bastard."

"That's Bastardo," I thought to myself, and made a mental note to correct him if I ever got the chance.

Ruefully, we got back into the car and returned to Bree's. Upon seeing his prize, our host's attitude changed immediately, and he spoke to me for the first time since we arrived. He opened a bottle and poured glasses all around without hesitation.

Many hours and all six bottles later, we decided it was time to break out the weapons and take out that damned foghorn. Each armed with antique 30.06s, Bree and I walked out the front door (the women folk were long asleep by now), only to discover that not only had we neglected to bring any ammunition, but we'd also left the house key in the house! Arrgh!!!

Bree pounded on the door for half an hour or more, but our better halves were either so deep in dreamland that they couldn't hear, or else they simply didn't give a damn.

We both woke in the kennel this morning. The Dobies were dutifully situated around their master, and now seemed indifferent to my presence. (Turdley actually sniffed at me briefly, before returning to his place; KJ and K-mus couldn't be bothered.) We both rose stiffly and entered the now unlocked front door to be greeted by the much amused and somewhat derisive Sue and Madame. We got cleaned up, and with the aid of plenty of strong coffee and more Tylenol 3, began to make preparations for this evenings festivities, a blowout tasting for 20 or so Zinfanatics (including one madman flying in from Geneva).

More later,

B