September 26, 2017
Standing outside of a coffee shop as I wait for my order isn’t the most interesting activity in the world.
At least not until I saw that fluffy dog. Just one pat on the head?
Is it me? Why won’t you let me pet your dog?
She called her dog unfriendly after all . . . No, he looked like, like a good boy. Yes, he was. Yes he was . . .
So it’s me then, huh lady? I look too dangerous, and you let your kid wear his crocs with the strap on backwards? You know how insane that is? It’s no better than a slipper now!
He is falling flat on his face as soon as he comes flying off that slide. No traction at all.
Your dog can come say hello for a second, especially if I’m trying to pet him. That means if he bites me, it was my fault for reaching toward that mean old pup.
If your dog bites me and I’m a normal human, I’ll probably be surprised, angry and complain.
Maybe I’ll say something under my breath as I storm away, holding my hand in exaggerated agony. I’ll try and make you feel bad, but I won’t really do anything legal.
So it must be me then, huh? She must have seen me get stuck in the baby swing. Talk about judging a book by its cover. I knew she looked like a judgmental lady. That face of hers.
I mean, okay . . . I guess I was in the middle of getting cut out by the fire department, and she was in the middle of a phone call. And she did say that that might not have been a dog but a rabid coyote.
And she did have a park ranger uniform on . . . maybe that wasn’t her kid . . .
But c’mon, let me pet that little guy!