That's My Dog

I was walking down the street, leash in hand, taking my dog out for a walk. It was a sunny day and the few birds in the sky were chirping their hearts out. A puffy white cloud or two floated by, one of which looked surprisingly a lot like a ’57 Chevy.

A cute blonde was roller-skating towards me. Well, cute is more an understatement. Her skates were filled with long tan legs that reached all the way up to black spandex running shorts. Her taught stomach glistened with sweat which dripped from a crimson sports bra. A smile arose on her lips as she approached and her eyes scanned me from top to bottom. “Aww, what a cute puppy you have,” she said with a giggle as she approached.

I mumbled a thanks and smiled. We started talking about puppies and the weather, you know, that kind of stuff you talk about when you don’t know someone well enough to strike up a real conversation. There the moment that I was dreading came to a head. A “hurk, hurk, hurk,” came from below us. As we both looked down, horrified, my dog barfed all over her skates. “Yep,” I said as he started to lick the vomit up, “that’s my dog.”