The project that he was working on at the trading company is coming to an end. According to another cigar afficionado, this is a golden opportunity.
The glass isn't half empty, it's half full.
What he should do, according to the well-meaning advice of the optimist, is dump the dogs and guns into his pick-up truck and head off to see the country.
Tell his wife he'll be back in six months, and if she's still there when he returns, he'll bring her a nice souvenir.
Now this of course is all wrong.
Bone-headed advice, indicative of messed up priorities.
Board the dogs with a friend, put the wife and the guns in the pick-up truck. You'll need someone to use those fire arms while you're outrunning a redneck biker gang somewhere east of Omaha. She can shoot at the pursuers while you put your heel to the gas.
Dude, those dogs ain't gonna be much use in that regard.
For one thing, they can't aim. And for another, they probably have attention deficit disorder. They weren't paying ANY mind when you showed them how to reload the rifle. They're dogs, for crapsakes! Do you really think they'll remember that all three of you pissed on that Harley parked outside of the roadhouse?
Your wife, on the other hand, will recall the incident vividly. And not only because women are a bit more modest about taking a whizz. Squat in public, not on your life!
Heck, she might have told your drunk ass at the time that it was a very bad idea.
And in any case, she can shoot better than the damned dogs.
ALWAYS, and this is valuable advice, ALWAYS bring the person with opposable thumbs!
Especially if you're going to tinkle on a hairy man's motorbike.
As an ironic statement of personal machismo.
Or just plain orneriness.
Of course I didn't say anything. The way I see it, if he goes off on a trip with his dogs and his guns, his wife is well rid of him. She has probably resented his affection for the hounds and fire arms several years now, regretted even marrying him. If he has a tattoo anywhere on his body, it probably says "Smith & Wesson" or "Sturm Ruger", instead of her name. Maybe a long-deceased hound lovingly engraved on one of his biceps. He wants to travel? Let him!
The glass isn't half empty, it's half full.
Just don't be surprised if she's living with a yoga instructor when you get back.
You'll find your cigars and the spare ammo out by the curb.
Bon voyage.
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