I’m in the park, walking rather than running, overdressed since it went from 30 to 65 degrees without passing GO, when I see a Bullmastiff the size of Pittsburgh.
He’s the color of tanned wheat, with Paul Anka eyes making me think any minute he’ll break into a few bars of, Put Your Head on My Shoulder, which would have been just fine with me.
He sees me looking, strolling over, like any confident male, as if to say…hey baby, what’s shakin, lifting his chin like a gangplank suggesting a good scratch.
How did I know it was a he? He had a woodie that would have hit it, outta the park, that’s how. I still got it, as they say, even if it’s only noticed by men with four legs.
His owner, looks over his shoulder to find me and Packie, his collar tells me, happily canoodling.
“I grin before saying one of my stock lines, “Is he single?”
“No,” Sven said,” (he looked like a short, bald, fat Norwegian) “but I am.”
“See ya Packie”.
Have a nice weekend everyone.