Blame it on the Dog

Two weekends ago, on the way home from camping at Mt. Rainier National Park, I stopped for a burger at Naches Tavern, where a sign in the window reads IF YOU ARE UNDER 21 BE PREPARED.

Naches Tavern
After a conversation where of all things we mostly talked about William Blake and skiing and interpretive dance, an ex-ski bum/firefighter named Mike gave me his number. He wrote it on a Mac and Jacks coaster, and I put it in my pocket.
“Oooo, her boyfriend is going to see that,” teased Mike’s buddy Fred.
“Actually, it’s my dog you have to worry about,” I said.
Then they drove off in a big truck.
I had all good intentions of calling him. I almost did it Monday, but thought I’d be cool and wait. Tuesday morning, the coaster disappeared. It surfaced on the front stoop, a little altered. The corner where the number was had been chewed off.
So sorry, Mike, my dog ate your number.
And all you people who eternally wondered why that certain person never called after you wrote down your number for them: who knows, maybe they have protective dogs too.  However, if they put your number in their phone instead of just on paper, they probably do hate you. Or they have super dedicated dogs.
And all you people who think that William Blake can’t help you pick up cute guys in small town bars, hah!
Also, Squinchy totally made up for it by a) being awesome and handsome, and b) befriending the interesting guy at the dog park’s dog today. I think I’ll trust Squinchy’s nose on this one.
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