Early last week, I came home from work to find Brad and the dog sitting together, watching television.
“Guess what the dog did today?” said Brad, grinning.
“Um… he pooped outside?” I suggested. One thing that nobody mentions about owning a puppy is that you will spend massive, untold amounts of time discussing the dog’s bowel movements—where he pooped, when he pooped, what the consistency of the poop was, and whether he tried to eat it. (The other thing nobody mentions is that you’ll think it’s totally great.)
“No!” said Brad, beaming, “He MET SOMEONE!” and then proceeded to tell me that he’d been outside with the dog, trying to coax him back into the building, when all of a sudden, he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with an Important Political Figure-- one whose name I will not type here, but it rhymes with General Schmesley Schmark.
According to the story, General Schmesley eyed the dog and then said, “How’s he doin’?”, to which Brad replied, “Ah, he’s alright, General—just needs a little discipline!”, at which point the General nodded in a military sort of way and disappeared into the building.
“What was he doing in your apartment building?” I said.
“I don’t know,” said Brad. “Who cares?”
“Have you seen General Schmesley Schmark again?” I asked, a few days later.
Brad gave me a narrow-eyed look.
“No, but – “ (more eye-narrowing) “I think he’s banging someone in this building.”
“Well,” said Brad, “First of all, I googled him. And I could only find, like, two pictures of his wife.”
I wasn’t following. “And?” I asked.
“And she didn’t look like a very warm person, if you know what I mean.”
“Ok,” I said, picturing Brad hunched over a computer, google-spying on Schmesley and passing unfounded judgements on his blameless wife, in a sort of modern-day twist on Rear Window. “Is there any other evidence to support your theory?”
“Yes,” said Brad, “Because I saw which apartment he went into, and later on, I was out back with the dog, and I could see that apartment, and all the lights were off.”
“And then, the next morning, there was food delivered to that apartment from the diner up the street, and,” he said, eyes gleaming with triumph, “it was FOR TWO!”
“Wow,” I said.
So, there you have it. General Schmesley Schmark spent an afternoon last week tangled up in the sweaty, tainted sheets of extramarital lust with an anonymous
Also, my boyfriend needs a hobby.
I'm onto you, Schmesley! You sly dog, you.