Perhaps the combination of natural beauty and inbreeding suited his erstwhile celibate nature – either that – or he is a descendant of the virile coyotes currently playing havoc with folk singers and campers from Broad Cove (no relation) to Meat Cove.
Whatever it is, or was, I confess to feeling a bit lovestruck myself, having spent a few days in the strong arms of the Highlands. I can think of nothing else besides the breathtaking water hazards and "Killiecrankie" – the aptly named 7th hole of the Highland Links – the legendary, randy Scot that devoured a dozen or so of my precious balls, and had me bending over in the bushes with every stroke.
I also lie awake at night thinking about the view from our cottage at Glenghorm Beach Resort, the friendly people, and the seafood chowder – rich with scallops and lobster – that reinforced the notion that size really does matter. It was the biggest and the best I've ever had.
Three days in Cape Breton wasn't enough, but it was long enough to reinforce my anger toward the dickheads who run this province – the elected oafs who overlook the commodity that is lying here unspoiled, underfunded, and under appreciated. Tourism. How anyone can walk on to the most spectacular golf course, mid-summer without a tee time, is a pleasure, and a pity. The attractions and accommodations of this postcard-pretty province should be overflowing with tourists horny for an experience they'll carry with them like happy herpes.
Instead, the icing on the shitcake: Nova Scotia has been crowned Canada's Mississippi of the North. Our neighbour, P.E.I. gets Regis and Kelly, and we get the sequel to "Uncle Tom's Cabin". Maybe that was the plan – take away the lifelines – the Maine ferry, direct European flights – and bring back the Underground fucking Railway.
Way to go, Canada's Ocean Playground.
Nevertheless, I remain a dog with a bone about getting back up to the Highlands. The deals are amazing from Dundee to Ingonish, and I even test drove a set of Nancy Lopez clubs at Golf Central in Bayer's Lake. (The golf courses of Cape Breton make you want to be a better woman.) Now, I lie awake at night, touching myself, thinking about Nancy Lopez's fat ass bending over to pick up a ball on #11, Bonnie Burn.
My dog, he lies next to my bed, dreaming coyote dreams and licking where his balls used to be.
Maybe he should run for Premier.