I knew the odds were stacked against me when my mother-inlaw — a traditional, teetotalling midwesterner — offered to buy me a shot of tequila.
I believe it was October of 2010. It was definitely a Friday, and we’d gathered at the Crested Butte Brewery (the short-lived but much-loved Gunnison version) with the whole family. Our friends — who, to protect the innocent, shall remain nameless — were there with their kids as well, each sporting an oddly mischievous look.
Something was afoot.
After stepping outside for a moment, members of our “FAC” party re-entered, the youngest, who was probably four at the time, holding a sparkling sixweek-old, red-and-white, cuteas-could-be border collie puppy.
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