Man-dog

Upon entering the front door, I was subjected to the canine inspection by a gifuckingnormous man-dog.

Captain Sarcastic: Uncomfortable grimace, look of horror as the cold, wet nose inspects every nook of my being. “Usually I insist on verbal foreplay first.”

Host’s spouse: Waves this off as if it were a social norm. Who wouldn’t enjoy this?

Visitors!  The dog was excited!  The more I tried pushing it away, the more it wanted to be near me!  The hostess didn’t want any help cooking, preparing or cleaning (damn), so I joined the others watching Brett Farve carve the Detroit Lions. The dog lost interest until another guest brought their mini-man dog with them.

Man and mini-man played grab-tail, rolling around from room to room like unshaven, drunk fraternity boys on double secret probation. Their wake of destruction was impressive, yet they somehow had the wherewithal to avoid the kitchen.  Whenever one bumped into a person, that person had to be inspected.  If you didn’t want to be inspected, you got the extra-special TSA attention: a wet nose on your privates.

The dog-owners found this endlessly amusing.  I did not.

Owner of mini-man opened the door and let both dogs outside. Three minutes later, the door opened and the dogs darted in. The room was engulfed with parfum du chien. It totally killed my appetite. Another guest, pulls out a basket of bones. Man dog is doubly excited when mini-man tries to take its femur toy away.   Alpha dog challenge ensued.  Bones squirt my way. Noooooooo! Just leave me alone.

Dinner was served as the Dallas game started. Dogs waited under the table, hoping for scraps to be dropped or handed to them. By the end of the meal, they had finally calmed down, trippin’ out on tryptophan.  By that point, I was in Negative Body Language mode, counting down the minutes until I could leave.  And that’s sad.