I visited my Spokane friends over the weekend, and Saturday morning's entertainment consisted of watching one of Lynn's bloodhounds trying to mount Dex, who's one-third his size.
"What does it say about us that we're just sitting here and watching this spectacle?" Lynn asked, her cigarette flapping on her lower lip.
Nothing good.
Melvin, the bloodhound, had a serious logistical problem. When the object of your affections can escape by walking backwards through your legs, you've got a problem. He looked at me for unconditional intragender sympathy.
"Yeah. I know. We've all been there, Melvin."