Run # 2054 Dog Meat's Birthday Hash<br/>
Weather: Hotn'Humid<br/>
Hashit: Just Pat<br/><br/>

It was July 7, 2025, and the RIH3 crew was ready to celebrate Dog Meat's birthday with a hash that'd go down in legend. The starting point was the familiar Burrillville Middle School parking lot, a sacred ground for old wankers like us, where the air smelled of nostalgia and cheap beer. Basket Boom Boom, the mastermind of this shindig, had promised a trail to honor his beloved Dog Meat, and we were all itching to see what chaos he'd cooked up.<br/><br/>

The pack gathered, a motley crew of grizzled hashers: Just Pat, OOzing, Amish, WHO, Mr. R, Rusty, PG, WIPOS, and yours truly. Basket, with a grin wider than the Branch River, sent us off with a bellow of "On-On!" Unlike the usual counterclockwise stumble through the woods, this trail took a wild twist-clockwise, like Basket was trying to mess with our internal compasses. The well-worn paths led us straight to the banks of the Branch River, where the promise of whiskey dangled like a carrot for a bunch of booze-hound donkeys.<br/><br/>

Now, here's where it got good. On the opposite bank, Just Pat, OOzing, and Amish stood like a trio of mischievous leprechauns, waving a bottle of single malt that glinted in the July sun. They taunted us, hollering, "Come and get it, you lazy sods!" The river wasn't exactly a gentle stream-submerged rocks waited to bruise our shins and egos. WHO, Mr. R, and I exchanged looks, weighing the risk of wet socks against the reward of that sweet, sweet whiskey. Meanwhile, Rusty and PG, those overeager bastards, didn't even pause-they splashed back to the trail, probably chasing some imaginary hare.<br/><br/>

Lucky for us old-timers, Just Pat and his crew took pity and ferried the bottle across, sparing our brittle bones a dunking. We savored that single malt like it was the elixir of life, each sip warming our souls as we toasted Dog Meat's big day. "To Dog Meat, the queen of hash and sass!" WHO proclaimed, and we all raised our imaginary glasses (because, let's be honest, we were drinking straight from the bottle).<br/><br/>

The pack, now fueled by whiskey and bad decisions, tore off at full speed. An arrow pointed to a safer crossing downstream, and we followed it like hounds on a scent. JP, always the frontrunner, led us on a bushwhack through brambles that snagged our shorts and dignity. But then, glory of glories, we stumbled upon the beer check. WIPOS, who'd been whining about keeping his sneakers pristine, finally surrendered and waded across the shallow bit to join us. The selection was marvelous-IPAs, stouts, and some weird craft brew Basket probably stole from a hipster's fridge. We clinked cans, laughing as WIPOS shook water off his feet like a disgruntled cat.<br/><br/>

The final stretch was a short, sweaty haul uphill back to the cars. We piled into a caravan and roared over to Basket's place for the real party. The noch was flowing-think nachos piled higher than our collective bad choices-and the beers were colder than a New England winter. Dog Meat, the birthday girl herself, was in rare form, accepting gifts like a queen on her throne. Someone (probably OOzing) handed her a tacky tiara, and she wore it with the grace of a woman who's seen it all and still chooses to run with us idiots.<br/><br/>

As the night wore on and the fire pit roared, Dog Meat, fueled by whiskey and the crowd's chants, decided it was time for her grand performance. "One more layer!" we hollered, egging her on as she stripped down to her birthday suit (well, close enough-hashers have standards, sort of). She danced around the fire, cackling like a witch casting a spell, while Basket beamed like a man who'd won the lottery. The pack whooped and cheered, probably waking every neighbor in a five-mile radius.<br/><br/>

By 11 PM, I'd had enough of the debauchery and kicked the pack out, citing "birthday girl privileges." The house quieted down, and at the stroke of midnight, I snuggled up next to Dog Meat, who was gloriously drunk and giggling about the night's chaos. "Best birthday ever,: she slurred, and I couldn't argue. Basket Boom Boom had outdone himself, and the RIH3 had given Dog Meat a night to remember-or forget, depending on how much of that single malt she'd downed.<br/>
On-On!