A few weeks ago while out in downtown Mill Valley hearing music at a bar with the cutest boy, I met the cutest dog just moments after said boy had met her too.  She was a gray Shar Pei named Penny Lane.

Hurts so cute, no?

So cute it hurts, no?

I’m a huge fan of dogs and am known to drop anything I’m doing for a chance to pet one.  So, naturally, upon spotting Penny Lane on the way out the door, I rushed to meet her.  I quickly began asking the Eastern European couple who owned Penny all my standard questions:  What’s your dog’s name?  How old is she?  How long have you had her?  How much do you want to eat her when she nuzzles into you with her eyes closed like that?  The owners obliged me and answered all of the questions, save the last one.

A few minutes later, the cutest boy appeared and began speaking to the owners with a familiarity indicating that earlier in the evening he too had wondered about the dog.  He chatted with us for a moment and then walked outside to wait for me.  As I stood up to leave, the woman started her own inquisition in her thick Russian accent.  I tried my best to oblige her and answered all of her questions, except for the last one.  The conversation went something like this:

Is that your husband? Do you have child with that man?

No, he’s not my husband.  He does have a child, but not with me.

So, if he not your husband, then what is he?

Um, I guess you could say we’re dating?

What is this?  I don’t understand you Americans.  What you mean dating?  What that mean?

Like we hang out and…

Oh, come on.  Tell me!  Do you have sex with that man? 

Uhhh…

Do you see those hands?  I watch those hands.  I watch those big, strong hands that petted the dog.  Does he touch you with those hands?  Ohhh, does he touch you with those hands like he touch and pet the dog???

And that’s when I pulled out my emergency bottle of Xanax and overdosed.

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