I'd long ago learned not to speak to women at Ed's old dog park in Redmond. It just wasn't worth it. It's the only place in the world, in fact, where I specifically seek out the company of men.
And then I helped plan, finance and build a dog park where I now live, and for some reason, it didn't occur to me that the social rules would remain the same.
I stared at a dog, unable to make out its breed. It was oddly familiar. I just couldn't put my finger on it. Some sort of hound, clearly, but more of a sporting one. Was it...? Could it...?
"Is that a bluetick coonhound?" I asked its owner.
"Yes, it's MY BOYFRIEND'S dog," the presumptuous bitch replied, caps inclusive.
"Ca-righst," I uttered and walked away. Not my best rejoinder ever.
I got myboyfriended at my own bloody dog park. Can't a woman wait until Second Four of an interaction before convicting a random guy of trying to ply his way into her pants?