So on my morning walk with Miles The Most Awesome Dog in America (we're gunning for you, Boo), I was accosted in less than two blocks by two strangers, both manning some mode of transportation.
First a man in a stopped car yelled, while I was SCOOPING MY DOG'S POOP, "Can I be your dog?"
Wait a minute, what? You'd like to be my dog, sir? Do you think that's sexy? Let me assure you, kind stranger, it is not sexy. Pugs are not a sexy animal, as opposed to like say a tiger or a bear. Nobody getting ready to do the mattress mambo suddenly stops in the middle and says, "Just you wait, I'm gonna be a smush nose dog tonight!"
Miles is more like the comely curmudgeon who spends most of his time snoring and breaks into your room every morning demanding to be fed with low guttural moaning. And yet even HE thinks your line was lame.
But instead of saying all that, I did what nice girls are all trained to do when confronted as they are on a constant basis by wildly unclever boobs. I giggled.
"Yeah, no," I answered to a question that just had to be rhetorical. No, my friend, you, as a male allegedly of the genus homo and the species sapien, cannot, in fact, become my dog. Then he had the nerve to drive off in a huff.
Not two seconds later another man, this one on a bicycle, asked if he could, "Walk my dog" in a sing songy voice that suggested he wanted to do more, much more. This is how Miles felt about it.
Dude, Miles cost a fortune. And before I start a not-so-quiet riot up in the comments section -- No, he is not from a puppy mill and yes, I did visit my local shelter first. But in the end I wanted a black Pug and the face above is what I shelled out half a month's rent for.
All that is to explain why I wished I'd answered, "No, you cannot walk my dog because he was an investment in happiness and you look to be homeless and although that has absolutely nothing to do with whether or not you might spirit my tiny therapist away on your rusted bicycle I'm gonna have to go with my gut and decline your kind offer, respectfully."
But, of course, I kept that soliloquy to myself, giggled again and gave him a simple, "Nah."
If that one guy who never fails to tell me that he'll take me and my dog to lunch rattled past in his pick-up truck then I would've pulled a perfect hollered-at hat trick this morning.
I understand that men have absolutely no clue what to do when a woman (even one with morning face) crosses their path. They honk, they scream, I've even had one throw a bottle at me in a misguided attempt at courtship.
But why, oh why, haven't the whole lot of them just sat down and had a pow wow? Someone needs to take charge and say, "Hear ye, hear ye I've heard tale of this ancient opening line. It's called 'Hello.' 'Cause listen guys, what we're doing isn't working."
Or maybe it is? Maybe there's some girl walking her dog down the street in dirty suede boots and the crusty sweat shirt she slept in thinking to herself, "God, I just WISH someone would say something stupid to me this morning!"
If that girl does in deed exist I think we should have an old-fashioned mob sit-down.
In the meantime, I'm going to work on fighting dumb with dumber. Next time someone asks to either walk, become or other molest my Miles-y, I'm going to think of something sassy and brash to say in return. Like, um. Like ummmm... Yeah, I got nothing. Help!