another shaggy dog story

"Are you sick?"


"Are you in love?"


It says a lot about humans that those two emotions can be confused so easily.


Several of you were concerned about my recent introspective posts over the past week.  Concerned enough to send me email or to call.


I am fine.


And, since this is confession time, I can tell you.  Yes.  I was a bit in love. 


With a dog.

 

Here she is.  Sadie is her name.


A loving dog.  Big dog. Of unknown parentage.  But golden blood obviously runs in her family tree -- just as certainly as mixed metaphors populate my posts.


I would like to say she is mine.  But she isn't.


She belongs to the people upstairs.  Canadians who have been traveling through Latin America with her for the past several months.  With a stop in Melaque for a week.


When they go out, they leave Sadie in the garden.  That means Sadie stays in the garden -- if I am out there.  But the moment I go inside, Sadie follows.  We are pals.


I must admit having her around has been very nice.  Even for the odd hour here and there.


When I first met Sadie, the first thing I noticed about her was her trim.  Her owners had given her a haircut well-suited for the tropics.


And she looked good in it.  She certainly had a better haircut than Steve Cotton.  I was starting to look as if I was auditioning for the part of Wilby Daniels in The Shaggy Dog.


So, off to the the barber I went.  Not to the fellow who gave me the unrequested Kojak cut last December.  A cut so thorough it lasted me three months.


Instead, I dropped in on the woman who has cut my hair twice before -- with rather good results.  After all, we are talking about something that does not matter much to me at all.  My hair.


When I sat down, I made it clear.  Medio.


And  medio it was.  She carefully hedged with the scissors and razors.  Cutting off just enough.


Because everything was going so well, my attention wandered to my Kindle.  I was reading about some additional horror in Japan, when I felt something I never want to feel on my head.  Warm goo.  Styling gel.


I glanced up.  She already had me looking like a well-greased axle.


There was nothing to say at that point.  But that is why I have shampoo at home.

 

But, until I could get there, all I needed was a pencil mustache and a cigarette holder to play either a gigolo or Xavier Cugat.


When I came through the gate, Sadie was there to greet me. 


And I swear she smirked.  I could almost hear her say: ten cents a dance?