I am in love.
That pure, spring is in the air kind of love, not the hair-pulling, “spit in my mouth” type of lust you see in porn.
I’m talking innocent here.
Gracie is my bitch.
True, she belongs to someone else, but dats ma biotch!
She is also a dog.
Something about dogs this week.
I am in Starbucks and there is another dog in the store.
Gracie looks like a miniature doberman pinscher, but smaller that whats in your head right now.
And she is into me.
She has been licking my elbow for the last half hour.
In certain 3rd world countries, that is as binding as wedding vows. (Although it saves me the bridal price of 3 goats.)
But, as with any true and pure love, there are issues.
Gracie likes to fart.
Maybe like is the wrong word.
Must, must fits better.
Gracie must fart.
It is an odd ironic twist that my nose, broken several times over the years, has a wide collection of smells that are denied me.
With the exception of rectal potpourri, and especially that variety of canine eau de toilette they are so well known for.
Eh, I’ve dated worse.
She isn’t cheating, has a drug problem, crazy ex, or 10 kids without fathers. (I am assuming here, but she seems like a good dog.)
But there is someone trying to break us up.
No clue what her name is, but I want to call her “Hot mess”.
Except that the word Hot feels odd in this sentence.
She’s a heavy girl, not that that’s unattractive, but this is that unhealthy kind of heavy.
The makeup was done by a drunken clown on a meth binder with Hodgkins.
In a very old woman, iffy crazy makeup would be somewhat excuseable.
But the drunken clown appears to be an ill-kept 22.
There is a low level murmur that has been going on for awhile now.
Except when she suddenly becomes aware of Gracie and me.
“Gracie, NO!” and yanks her over beside her, then goes back to being oblivious as Gracie comes back to me, begins licking my elbow, and farting one more time.
It is my sincere hope that Gracie does not shit on the cushion beside me.
Who knows how long the drunk clown has had her in here?
I am interrupted from my musings by the fact that my coffee has cooled just enough to drink without blistering my mouth.
There is an almost orgasmic delight in that first sip of a properly done pour over with Ethiopian Yirgacheffe beans. (And this is with clothing on, go figure.)
Gracie seems to share my excitement and snuggles up.
It is a good moment to exist in.
Even the drunken clown minds her own for that moment.
Which is good.
Sometimes, you just need that moment.