My E.O.G Game Is On!

I think I just level-upped my Early Onset Grumpiness.

Leveled Up?

I dunno which is righter.

No.  Wait.  I know neither is actually acceptable and just give up.

Anyhoo.  

The Silver Fox and I are sitting here in our neighborhood cafe, drinking our coffee and discussing Trump denying he used the phrase “shithole countries” the other day when something happened.

I’d seen this guy walk up with his dog – a young yellow lab, so I was attenuated on The Fox’s behalf since his dog share is also a lab.  The guy ties his dog up street side and comes into the cafe.

I give the guy a look that fails to register, but conveyed my, “You gonna leave your dog outside in the wet while you come in here and eat?”

Anyway, he ordered to go, as it turns out.  He’s standing there waiting for his sandwich and the next thing he or I know his dog is in the street greeting a passerby jaywalker.

With the table he was tethered to.

Now, I saw the guy come into the cafe sans puppy and assumed he had been lashed to one of Portland’s many bike racks.

No, our brainiac tied the dog to a table that is just a lightweight metal legged, wood slat top situation.  Patio furniture, basically.

The dog is enthusiastically greeting this jaywalking lady who is trying to pick the tabletop up out of the street and the dog has completely entangled himself in the leash and tablelegs.  Not that that is dampening the pup’s enthusiasm at all.

The owner finally arrives and handles the dog situation.  

I wonder if the dog knows the woman, explaining the overwhelming excitement of the animal toward her.

She’s now picking up hardware out of the street so cars don’t get screws stuck in their tires.  After she’s collected the attaching screws and whatnot, she carries on her way.

The guy comes in, picks up his sandwich and leaves.

I give him a hard stare as he walks by my window, which he adroitly ignores.

I walk up to our Substitute Barista and ask if the guy said anything to her about the table.  She’d missed the entire thing, helping customers.  Two of whom are standing right by me waiting for food and had seen the entire thing.

Neither of them confirm my account, so Substitute Barista and I go outside to assess.

The guy had set the detached top back on the legs and left the hardware sitting on the window ledge adjacent.

Substitute Barista declares that situation unsafe and I suggest taking the table into the cafe’s storage area.  She agrees, I grab the top and she grabs the legs.  She’s still talking about how could people do something like that.  One of the other witnesses is leaving as we’re coming back into the cafe and holds the door, saying, “Nice timing!” at her helpfulness.

I glare at her in disbelief, still she’s said nothing.

I go back to The Fox and pick up on our conversation, “It’s nice to see the GOP acknowledging that they are likely to lose their majority in Congress.  I just wish they would realize it’s not because incumbents are retiring or resigning so much as it’s their actions that will cause them to lose their majority.”

We went on to discuss the Trumpster Fire’s use of the phrase “shithole countries” some more, specifically how NPR had actually quoted the phrase and not bothered bleeping it.

The point I was making was how the mainstream media and congress have largely stood by and not specifically called out Trump for his bad behavior.  This is how he is able to continually get away with his devolving statesmanship.

No one speaks up.

Much like the two customers standing immediately by the dog owner today.  I watched what happened, stood up, crossed the cafe and narced on the guy who damaged someone else’s property and said nothing.

And why should he, given the example of our country’s leadership?

Well, I saw something and I said something.  

Then I said, “I hope that guy is a regular and you get a chance to call him out.”

Not that I want Substitute Barista involved in a confrontation, but I do think someone should be able to respectfully and safely say, “Hey, that wasn’t cool.”

When the guy walked back by with his dog as I wrote this, I debated going outside and saying something to him.  The Fox kind of talked me out of it, which is good since I may fail the “respectfully” part of the conversation…but I glared at him real good.

My E.O.G Game Is On!

The Fiendly Skies

It’s a bad start to any trip when you wake up two and a half hours before your alarm the morning of your departure.

Yet, there I was, wide awake at 2:00 after almost four – count ‘em! – glorious hours of sleep.

Me: I could go in early and get some work done before takeoff.

Working at the airport is convenient in this scenario.

Myrtle: You move, you die.

It’s like that beast can selectively read my mind.  But, the Mistress has been sleeping with me nightly the last six months, usually pinning me to one spot by nestiling into my crotch after I’m asleep.  That and using her litter box consistently last week for the first time in a year – damn feline UTIs – and I’m inclined to lay there and let her purr for a while longer.

Well, those two things and my own natural laziness and finely honed sense of procrastination.

I finally rip myself from my sheets at 4:15, as if I’m made of Velcro.

I’d spent my two hour non-nap thinking.

Ruminating.

Reflecting.

Bouncing back and forth between personal thoughts and work.

Did I pack everything?

I should just go in, this is ridiculous…I could knock out payroll and give a few breaks before I board.

I’ll bet I never hear from The Wallpaper again.

I should start going to the gym again.

I wonder whether Linda Belcher will snoop when she’s checking in on Myrtle.  Meh.  Nothing crazy in my nightstand.  But I do have The Silver Fox’s Pleasure Chest in my closet…I wonder what he’s got in there.

If I go to work, it’ll take away a development opportunity I assigned to one of the junior managers.  It’s good I’m staying in bed.

I wonder if Jeo and I will reform our friendship.  It was nice running into him the other day.  He gives great hugs.

I’d really like to have sex again with The Wallpaper when we’re not half drunk.

Do I need to leave a note for Linda Belcher?  Taking care of Myrtle can’t be too big a mystery…

I should wait on the gym.  If running is back on the radar, I want to focus on accomplishing that and not risk reinjuring my shoulder.

Should I put a disclaimer on the Pleasure Chest saying it’s not mine.   Nah…nothing bad will happen.  What could possibly go wrong?

God, I hate flying.

Y’know, that type of productive mind vomit.

Once I finally start stumbling around, my procrastination kicks into high gear.  I turn on my Sonos, it’s still on the station I’d created for The Wallpaper and a Rita Ora song starts playing.  I’d never heard of her before the other night and really like her music.

I play laser tag with The World’s Most Dangerous Feline, re-check my bag (ok, I guess this is semi-productive), clean the toilet, shower, dress, pack my Dopp kit, feed Myrtle, change my clothes and then realize that I probably should have given myself a few extra minutes to get to the MAX stop with my suitcase.

I call an Uber.  God bless my parents and their insistence on giving me some “walking around” money for my trip.  The Uber is on them!

My driver is pretty chatty, his name is Van according to the Uber app – talk about name predermination, an Uber driver named Van?  This guy never stood a chance.  I notice that his car’s onboard system refers to him as Jay and Jay’s playlist is pretty solid.  As I’m appreciating it, the display changes to the next song, Anywhere by…Rita-fucking-Ora.  

So, that’s how it’s gonna be, eh?

I get to the airport and check in with minimal fuss…thank goodness there was a retiree stationed at the kiosk to help me.  I really did need it this morning.  Despite the way being stymied by technology usually makes me feel, I cut myself a break this morning and refuse to chide my imminent old-age.

While check-in was breezy, I soon discovered that it was looking like that would be the last non-frustrating part of my day.  From here on out, it’s frenzy and frustration.

Checking my bag was an odyssey.  A line that snaked through every switchback in the stanchions.

Ugh.

I started kinda freaking out at the fact that I hadn’t seen my counterpart or The Boss yet, we are all on the same flight and I’d gotten to the airport 15 minutes before the boss said he planned to arrive.

Maybe they were carrying on.  Who knows with straight guys?  Me?  I had to pack a couple bottles of wine for me and my Boise counterpart to share over the coming week of meetings.

Why is this idiot kid taking so long?  What’s he checking…is that a bike?  

C’mon, universe!

Pairing the unwieldy parcel with the most challenged check-in agent seems a little excessive.

I finally complete this level of Hell and head to our pre-security store to touch base after a tough day yesterday and make sure my early morning associate, PLoop, got her break.

I recognize The Boss’ cotton-topped head from behind and am simultaneously glad he’s made it and chafed that he got ahead of me because he didn’t have a bag to check.

He’s grabbing a bagel and as PLoop is ringing him up, she’s making small talk with me.  She has an omnidirectional attention span that I usually find amusing.  Not this morning, though…The Boss is antsy to get through security since our flight leaves in an hour.

Nevertheless, she persisted.

I interrupt her chatter to ask about the break, she declares she snuck a potty break and I tell her that I’ll hold the fort while she grabs a snack.  I tell her to finish with The Boss, who has begun an antsy side to side dance.

You know what PLoop does?

Persists.

And I find it endearing.

The Boss takes off in the vague direction of the employee line through security.  Neither of us knows its precise location, since our badges allow us access to the secure parts of the airport without going through that line every time.  He told me on my first day that he’d show me how the routine worked but never did, so I never have done it.  On his way out, he tossed a little dagger my direction about everyone showing up today, three associates had called out the day before and it was a shit show.

But I could chuckle at his dig.  Thanks to some great teamwork, I survived the day.

Sidebar: dear gawd, the woman across the aisle from me is triggering my mysophonia.  She’s sniffing like Trump during a presidential debate.  It started five minutes after we pushed back, went on every 30 seconds for about 15 minutes and has been repeating ever since.  I think it’s a tic, there’s no thickness to it…just an incessant wet sniffle.

I take off my jacket and assume the position behind the register so PLoop can take her break.  It’s about 5:40 in the morning, we should board around 6 and I still want to get my own snacks and drink for the plane after going through security.  PLoop talks herself out onto her break and while responding when needed, my inner countdown clock is speeding up.

When she comes back, we exchange goodbyes – it really is nuts how much I’ve missed my team, dysfunction and all, when I’ve gone away for meetings or vacation – and head for security.  It’s not quite 6, but definitely past 5:55, so I gotta take some cuts to get ahead in line.  I wave my badge at the TSA agent and express my question by waggling my finger between three entry points.  He directs me to the middle, cutting out all of the switchbacks and queuing me up for the scanners.

I strip off my shoes as I approach, even though I’m fifth back on line, I’m the only one preparing.  

Belt off.

Fourth back.

The people ahead of me all grab totes simultaneously and start piling their accessories into their tubs.  Once the first guy has shoved his totes toward the rollers and made for the scanner, there’s enough room for me to grab a tote of my own.

I’m ready about the same time as the lady two up and the guy right in front of me.

The TSA guy feeding the rollers points s floral backpack my way and asks if there are any laptops or tablets in it.

“I don’t know, it’s hers”, I respond pointing to where the owner was moments ago…but she’s now suddenly in the scanner.

I give the guy a palms up gesture.

He moves on.

“Who’s kicks are these?”, he asks.

Those would be mine”, I say.

“Sick”

Cool.  Props from one of the fit TSA agents.  My day is looking up.

I randomly wonder what my junk looks like on the scanner as it rotates around me, then step out when invited and await the inevitable.

Expecting a pat down, I’m given a casual borderline #metoo caress as the agent is telling me he just needs to check my backside.

This happens every time I fly – something on my back triggers a pat down, but usually I get the whole enchilada.

This time, it’s just a little stroke.

Of course, there’s nothing there.  There’s so little there there, that I really think the agents are confirming the total absence of any ass on me.

Whatevs.  I heard someone say recently about TSA screenings, “I never turn down foreplay” and have adopted that same attitude.

I get redressed, trying hard to keep by Dunlap covered while putting my belt back on, and head off to get my flight snacks.  It’s about 6:05.  The plane is boarding, but I need s Monster and something to read.  Plus, the store is right by the gate.

The line is around the store.  

Ugh.  It’s the luggage check-in people all over again.

In an unusual twist, instead of running along the edge of the cash wrap around the Store which is how this usually goes – some brainiac had somehow convinced the line to form from the cash wrap straight back to the wall and then around the perimeter of the store, thus blocking all of the books and magazines as well as the coolers.

I wanted a book and a Monster.

Idiots.

I decide that instead of fighting and then joining the throng, I’d help my associate bust her line and make some other travelers happy.  I go to take off my coat and start ringing.

No coat.

Fuuuuuuuck.

I start ringing anyway.

Where did I leave it?  

Must have been security.

No.  No…that can’t be right, I’d never put my shoes on top of my jacket – germs – and my sneakers got complimented, so they weren’t covered by my jacket.

The pre-security store!

Fuuuuuck, again!

No time to go back through or have someone bring it to me, I decide as I’m ringing.  I can do without, it was mid 70s in Atlanta last week.  

I get my book – Ready Player One – and my Monster, pay, say goodbye to my associate and head across the concourse to the gate…where people are standing in no particular order.

“Nice line”, I say to my counterpart, because we’re talking agin now that I realized that I was responsible for my behavior, regardless of whether I think he should be fired for his.  I can only hold myself accountable to maintaining my professional demeanor.

“They just started boarding”, he says as I notice an unmoving line coming from the jetway.

It’s 6:15.

“This is excruciating”, I complain, “You look like shit.  Are you hungover?”  Professionalism can still be passive-aggressive, right?

We chat while the line goes nowhere.  The gate agent makes an announcement that is unintelligible and The Boss comes over to stand by us just as Capt Can’t decides to join his boarding group in line for the plane.

I call our pre-security store and ask PLoop to get my jacket to my office for me.  Luckily, there’s nothing in it I need.

At about 6:30 – our scheduled departure time – the gate agent makes another announcement about gate checking carry ons and The Boss goes to check his…his plan all along.  Not paying the $25 bag fee.

We’re still on boarding group one.  Capt Can’t – who is in group one – has finally been swallowed up by the jetway, so I guess that’s progress.

The Boss comes back with his carry on in tow.

His response to my raised eyebrows is, “He’s gonna make an announcement and then take it at the gate”.

The announcement comes toward the end of boarding for the enormous group one.

Almost everyone left in the holding room rushes the gate with their carry on.

Cheap ass bastards.

I’m standing there with a book in one hand and Monster in the other alone with two ladies and a (pretty cute) guy…all that’s left of groups two and three.

“Well, now I’m going to be the last one on this plane just out of principle”, I say to the straggling lot.

At 6:41, I take my seat and by 6:43 we are pushing back.

Good god, I’ve never seen a less organized boarding gate process…and I’ve flown Southwest!  I’m literally thinking this during the safety talk, that has to be in person versus video because the in flight entertainment system is down.  

My conclusion?

That retiree at the check-in kiosks was the only airline associate worth a damn this morning.

No wonder the airline’s acronym is

Doesn’t 

Ever

Leave

The

Airport

But I’m not naming names.

The next thought I have?

That I’m gonna have to listen to Trump Sniffler for four damn hours because y’know what?  There was something in my jacket I needed…my headphones!

Oh well, the way this is going my music would have somehow managed to be all Rita Oro the whole way.

The Fiendly Skies

Stupid Americans

Re-read the title of this post in a French accent.  That’s how I typed it.

Pretty much any European accent will work.

It’s a phrase that randomly trots through my head when confronted with how non-global our educational focus is as a country.

After all, how many languages do you speak?

I was confronted by this twice yesterday.  

Once, innocently on the Facebook when a friend shared a kindness of strangers travel story.  The first comment was “Threat all people with respect”.  

Obviously, meaning “treat”, right?

I got a good chuckle out of the concept of threatening someone with respect.  It was like that old dry rejoinder, “Don’t threaten me with a good time!”

Well, my comment was something about an awkward H.

The OP cautioned me that the comment was made by a French friend of hers.  That was perfect, really, since the first time I heard “Stupid Americans” go through my head was about an hour after getting off a plane in Paris.  Sacha had insisted I learn a few <ahem> key phrases on the plane. 

Whatever, it’ll help kill 10 hours…but you couldn’t insist on this before we got in the plane?  It’s not like I was gonna master French somewhere over the Atlantic.

“Puis-je avoir ma cle, sil vous plait?”, I vomited at the hotel’s front desk, attempting to ask for my – wait for it – key.

Get it?  Key phrases.

Ok.  Sorry.

“Speak English”, was the response that came with the key.

A derisively toned “Stupid Americans” is what I heard in my head.

So, now I’m trying to helpfully point out a typo to someone on Facebook that is communicating – in writing – in what is likely one of three of four languages she knows.

She gets points!

And here I am, still just a Stupid American.

Case in – ugh – point, while my original imagined occurrence of hearing “Stupid Americans” was while traveling in France, now I work in travel retail.

While giving a break at work yesterday, a young Spanish man (fans self…woo) approached me to ask how much a set of headphones cost.  He struggled.  I was just finishing up with a customer and another Manager was nearby talking to the Sales Associate returning from her break – who emigrated from Russia and frequently apologizes for her accent/English – so I asked them to help.

“I’m not sure what he wants…”

Based on his gestures and non-verbals, her confusion was understandable.

Get ready for some misplaced maternal pride, Mom.

“Cuanto questo?” I said, gesturing to the headphones.  And, no, I’m not sure at all that I spelled that correctly.  Every finger on my body reached for the Q key while typing “cuanto”.

“Si!  Si, si, si.” he replied with relief.

“Son – uh – trente dolares”, I told him while trying to remember if I could pull the old “Trente faltan uno centavo” our of my hat to communicate $29.99 instead of just telling him $30 like you can say “Seis faltan cuarto minutos” to indicate it’s a quarter to six.

Or something like that.

I couldn’t remember for the life of me, so I just ended up handing a penny back to this confused, hot Spaniard.

I walked out of the store with the other Manager and she was praising me for doing a good job with that customer.

All I heard was, “Stupid American”.  

I also shared the thought running through my head about what that scene would have been like if our broken English Russian associate had been helping the pigeon English Spaniard.

It’s pretty funny in my head, but pretty sad in reality, since one of the people is living in a country that requires her to speak a foreign language every day in order to feed herself and I could barely translate $30 from English to Spanish after taking five years of the language in High School and College.

The other guy was basically me 20 years ago, bless his little corazon.

Fine.

30 years ago.

Or, as they say in Spanish…trente.

Stupid Americans

The Dog Blog

Admittedly, this will likely fall into the “Voice of Treason” category of blog…but don’t shoot me.  Or at least hear me out, first.  I figure the best time to post this is when everyone still has warm fuzzies for me after the Myrtle post.  Plus, even if this makes you hate me, you know that there’s an innocent dependent’s well-being on the line if any harm comes my way.

Nah, let’s stick with just not shooting me.  Just don’t do me any favors.

Here’s the thing.  I’ve actively started saying that I don’t like dogs.

Me, the guy who dog sits for friends.

Me, the guy with two exes that have left me “responsible” for a total of four canines in my life.  Seriously, do I know how to pick a shitty, unaccountable guy or do I?

Me, the guy who smiles when dogs walk by.

Me, the guy who has a dog-voice that I use to carry on conversations with dogs.

Ok, I kind of love dogs.

I frequently say that dogs are the best people.  Their unconditional love.  The way they are always happy to see you when you come home.  How they are always up for a good time, regardless of my level of enthusiasm for said good time.

They’re like the Julie McCoy of the Animal Kingdom.  Let’s have fun, everyone!  Every minute!  Every day!  Fun, fun, fun!

Maybe I just have a higher-level appreciation of them versus wanting to own one.  Or let your dog’s presence mandate where we spend our social time together.

I’m obviously a horrible person.

So, shut up.  I like cats better.  They are independent.  Can’t be bothered with me most of the time, unless I’m trying to sleep, it would seem.  And somehow, owning the requisite box of shit that comes along with a cat is preferable to me to four walks a day where I sink my hand into a steaming pile with only the thinnest gauge of plastic separating me from a complete germophobic meltdown.

I’m sure it’s part of my aforementioned “evolving” germophobia, but dogs just have a lot of stinky, slobbery and hairy debris that comes with their unconditional love:

Their “The World Is My Kleenex” habit of shoving their nose everywhere.  Have you ever seen a car window after a dog has ridden in the car and the window wasn’t down?  Yeah, those slobbery, snotty smears also end up on your pants every time a dog shoves its nose into your crotch.  On your hands and arms when you play with them.

People who kiss dogs on the nose or mouth?  The thought practically triggers my gag reflex.

The argument that a dog’s mouth is the cleanest part of it’s body?  Yeah, that doesn’t mean it’s a sterile surface or even one remotely approaching clean.  It’s just the cleanest part of a big, goofy, dirty, lovable organism.

Wanna play catch with a dog?  Have fun with that.  That ball, knotted rope, frisbee, what-have-you…those are pretty much single serve toys for me.  After the first time you throw it, it’s coming back soaked in dog drool.

Those four walks a day I mentioned earlier?  Yeah, I live in the PNW, it rains here.  It’s muddy.  Dogs pee and poop in that mud.  Then other dogs walk in that shitty, pissy mud and we humans walk through it, tracking it everywhere.

Yup.  Definitely a high level appreciation of dogs.  That’s what I got.

What a cute dog!  From across the street.

Now, this is not to say that I don’t absolutely love the dogs in my circle of family and friends.  There’s a good half dozen pooches I can’t possibly escape in my day to day existence.  My best friend is fostering a dog while his owner is couch surfing at a friend’s between his permanent residences.  The Silver Fox was absolutely gaga over this hound the second they met.  This 95 lb, 7 month old, completely undisciplined and untrained bird-brained, elephant-hearted retriever.

The Fox comes to my place almost every day with a pot of coffee and frequently his laptop to get some peace and quiet.  That dog pretty much has no off button.  If you’re around…let’s play!  If you’re on the phone or typing on your laptop, he’s gonna sit beside you and bark until you stop what you’re doing and drop him off at the pound.  Wait…play with him.  That’s what he thinks he’s doing, inviting you to play.

Me?  I get pretty great coffee out of the deal.  And the completely un-grim satisfaction of having my low-grade pooch aversion validated by my best friend.  And there is no doubt in my mind that this man loves this – and probably any – canine, or as I like to call them, insanines.

But here’s the deal, he’s not uncommon in his absolute love for dogs.  My seeming aversion to them is the weird thing.  Maybe I just admit it, talk about it out loud; while he grabs a pot of coffee and hoofs it across the park for an escape.  A retired man and a near critical mass energetic retriever are probably as odd a couple as any.  My theory?  Dogs need time in isolation every day in order for the realization that the world is not their chew toy to sink in.  These two poor, lovable bastards are screwed to feed each other’s love/loathe relationship for the foreseeable future…here’s hoping the couch-guest finds a forever-home for himself and the dog before the mutual psychosis sets in permanently between the Fox and hound.  If the Fox convinces himself that having a dog around isn’t so bad, I’m gonna have to move out of the state and conduct our friendship over bark-laden phone calls.

The flip side of that “everyone just inherently loves dogs” coin is the fact that dogs have become the new Jeep Culture or Runner’s Bond.

I was a recreational runner for 35 years.  I owned a Jeep longer than my ex found amusing or acceptable.  I’ve been exposed to both of these camaraderie cultures.

Runners – definitely here in Portland, but even as I recall in Long Beach, LA and (gawd help me, I am not saying something nice about Texas) Houston – were always pleasant to encounter.  Oncoming runners generally could be relied upon to smile, nod or give you a floppy-wristed wave as they crossed your path.  Not that there weren’t those runners that passed from behind – so annoying – and greeted you with an all too loud “On your left!” moments before overtaking you.  Well, hell…it was pretty much screamed in your ear as they passed you, as if to reinforce the fact that you were officially losing at getting in shape by comparison.  Perhaps I project.

Anyway, this was all also before the advent of MP3 players, iPods and the like, which now enable us to tune out and ignore the people around us, whether we’re running, jogging, speed-walking or just carrying on about our daily lives about town.  But that’s another blog.

Likewise, when I had my Jeep, meeting another Jeep driver at an intersection generally came with a bond of ownership between myself and the other driver.  It was super nice.  Although, I admit the brouhaha that ensued amongst the clan when Jeep switched headlight shapes from round to rectangular in the 90’s was a nearly irreparable chasm in the brotherhood.  But you could still at least count on a grudgingly bestowed nod of the head to acknowledge your vehicle, while not outright questioning your Jeep-cred.  Man, thank goodness they switched back to round headlights.  Crisis averted.

So, now the social mantle seemingly falls to dog owners.  Great.  I’m all for an awesome feeling of community within my community.  The issue I have with that manifesting amongst canine enthusiasts is the absolute certainty that a stranger is going to lose their shit about how cute your dog is.  No matter what you’re doing.  No matter how cute your dog actually is.

Talking on the phone?   No worries, I’m just talking to your dog in a super-high pitched voice, getting the beastie all riled up while you try to hold the leash with one hand and your phone with the other.

Sitting at a sidewalk cafe discussing personal things with your best friend?  No problem, I’m just gonna get down on my hands and knees and talk to your dog…asking questions like, “How cute are you?!”  “How old are you, sweetie?”  “What’s your name?”

Well, I hate to break it to you, dummy, but that dog can’t actually respond to your inane questions.  I have to.  Let me break away from what I’m doing to answer those questions for your so that I don’t look like an asshole, asshole.  No offense.

Then there’s the street people who are your best friend when they see you have a dog with you.

“She’s beautiful!  I bet that gets you a lot of attention from the ladies, eh?”  Blink, blink.

“What a big dog!  What do you feed him?”  Homeless people, mostly.

“My daddy used to have a dog just like you!”  It’s really not appropriate for a woman your age to refer to your rather likely deceased father as “daddy”.

“Oh, I love you!  You want to come home with me?”  You have a needle in your arm.

I think the dog answered for himself on that last one.

Maybe I’m just bitter at my forced retirement from running and therefore notice the shortcomings of similarly enthusiastic shared cultural bonds between Americans.  Earning my grumpy, old man chops by picking on poor, defenseless, lovable pups.

Runners really are good people, though.

The best, right behind dogs.

Honestly.

The Dog Blog