On Thursday morning I played football with some friends of mine. It’s a tradition we’ve had going for about 10 years, and some of my friends parent’s have had it going for about 35 years. We get together, play football, and then drink some beers. We used to drink beers at a local bar, but then I started refusing to go when I noticed the bar hung a giant confederate flag with the words “It ain’t coming down” on it. And a picture of Robert E. Lee by the men’s bathroom. What the fuck? The south lost, dumb-dumbs.
Regardless, I’m not giving those dumb-dumbs any of my money, so I’ve started bring my own beer to the games. This year I made the mistake of drinking two cans before the game started, and about 30 minutes in I was burping foam. It was filthy.
So, I took a time out, and by “took a time out” I mean, “I went over to lay down in the grass with my shirt off even though it was only 35 degrees outside, and then I found a suitable place to puke”.
But I never did throw up. Quite the contrary, I was harassed by a Golden Retriever instead. You may be wondering how being harassed by a dog is the contrary to throwing up, and if you had been a bit more patient I would have explained it to you. Geez!
So anyway, the whole time we were playing there was a guy and his dog and the dog was running around like crazy. Then, when I split off from the game, the dog kept running around like crazy. Nothing really changed until the dog veered off course for reasons known only to the dog and then nearly tripped over me. The dog stopped short, cocked up it’s ears and twisted it’s head to the side as if it were shocked to see me. I would have been shocked to see me. It’s not every day you run into a grown man with foam dribbling from his mouth into a storm sewer in the middle of a field. So the dog did what any rational dog would do. It tried to play with me.
The dog ran at me, then doubled back, then ran at me again. Each time the dog made as if it were going to jump over me, and then it would stop short and make a supplicant bowing motion toward me. I wasn’t really in the mood to play with the dog, so I kicked it the next time it came over, and by “kicked it” I mean “continued to lay there doing nothing”.
I must have been very exciting in the dog’s tiny-brained field-galloping world, because the dog proceeded to run laps around me as all my friends laughed.
Stupid friends.
In the end the dog came over and sat down with me for a while, which was nice because it actually made me feel a little bit better.
Still, it would have been much nicer had the dog also been carrying some water and a half-dozen aspirin. Sort of like the opposite of the St. Bernard’s that carry liquor. Like a hangover-dog instead of a get-you-wasted-in-the-snow St. Bernard.
