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“Is there anything I can do to help?” Have there ever been any more potentially disastrous words in all of history? Maybe What does this button do? but that’s probably about it. I wonder if this fits in here is close, too. They all pale in comparison to Is there anything I can do to help? though. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut, but no. So here’s me, chasing Rupert the French bulldog across the dog park, sounding queerer and queerer with every horrified, voice cracking “Rupert!” as the horny devil tries it on with anything within reach of his short but speedy legs. “That dog’s a menace,” Man-bun snaps, prying his Cocker Spaniel out from under Rupert’s valiant but doomed aspirations for a leggy redhead. |
“It’s not my dog.” Perhaps stopping to defend myself to the handsome hipster isn’t the best way to catch Rupert because his snorty-huffy pants fade away while I ogle.
Man-bun stalks off, fur-baby Cocker cradled in his arms. Doesn’t even give my arse a first glance as he goes.
My own aspirations of ever getting humped dwindling, I resume the chase.
“Pierre!”
At least I’m not the only twit yelling after a runaway. As Pierre dashes for freedom, I realise I’ve lost Rupert again. If there’s one thing worse than chasing a dog with his lipstick on permanent show, it’s a lone guy wandering around a dog park sans dog, having the terrible thought that he could just leave and no one would know.
“Pierre!”
Closer and way more scandalised, the shout pulls me up. Well, hello. A nicely displayed rear waggles about as the owner rummages in a bush. Running shorts, long legs, curly hair on deliciously rounded and firm calves. Suddenly Rupert’s not the only one with a lipstick problem.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Stupid mouth.
“Yeah.” Running Shorts straightens and stares worriedly into the bush. “You could find the owner of the black Frenchie who’s currently humping Pierre.”
He smells like man-sweat, grass and... Old Spice? Be still my wobbly knees. Then the words sink in.
“Black Frenchie?” I focus on the happily grunting French bulldogs. The one on the bottom is white with black ears and the one on top... “Rupert!”
“That’s your dog?”
“No. He’s my elderly neighbour’s. I’m helping her out with Rupert, and cleaning, and... stuff.” First impressions and all, but surely one out of three is fair.
Running Shorts stares at me and I get lost in his glorious brown eyes. Then he smiles and I’m melting, melting, MELTING!
“Me too. Well, Pierre’s my sister’s dog. She just had a baby and I figure this is easier than changing nappies, right?”
He could have said This is easier than murder for all that my “Right” was in response to anything other than everything about him. Perfection wrapped up in a perfect package with a perfect bow.
“Though this seems... complicated.” His musing voice is low, rumbly and best applied to my belly. He waves at the sated and cuddly Frenchies, their smooshed-up snouts pressed together.
“Perhaps we could discuss it over coffee?” At my place. In my bed. Or over that log just there!
Running Shorts smiles like I spoke aloud--did I?—and says, “Sounds perfect.”
Man-bun stalks off, fur-baby Cocker cradled in his arms. Doesn’t even give my arse a first glance as he goes.
My own aspirations of ever getting humped dwindling, I resume the chase.
“Pierre!”
At least I’m not the only twit yelling after a runaway. As Pierre dashes for freedom, I realise I’ve lost Rupert again. If there’s one thing worse than chasing a dog with his lipstick on permanent show, it’s a lone guy wandering around a dog park sans dog, having the terrible thought that he could just leave and no one would know.
“Pierre!”
Closer and way more scandalised, the shout pulls me up. Well, hello. A nicely displayed rear waggles about as the owner rummages in a bush. Running shorts, long legs, curly hair on deliciously rounded and firm calves. Suddenly Rupert’s not the only one with a lipstick problem.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Stupid mouth.
“Yeah.” Running Shorts straightens and stares worriedly into the bush. “You could find the owner of the black Frenchie who’s currently humping Pierre.”
He smells like man-sweat, grass and... Old Spice? Be still my wobbly knees. Then the words sink in.
“Black Frenchie?” I focus on the happily grunting French bulldogs. The one on the bottom is white with black ears and the one on top... “Rupert!”
“That’s your dog?”
“No. He’s my elderly neighbour’s. I’m helping her out with Rupert, and cleaning, and... stuff.” First impressions and all, but surely one out of three is fair.
Running Shorts stares at me and I get lost in his glorious brown eyes. Then he smiles and I’m melting, melting, MELTING!
“Me too. Well, Pierre’s my sister’s dog. She just had a baby and I figure this is easier than changing nappies, right?”
He could have said This is easier than murder for all that my “Right” was in response to anything other than everything about him. Perfection wrapped up in a perfect package with a perfect bow.
“Though this seems... complicated.” His musing voice is low, rumbly and best applied to my belly. He waves at the sated and cuddly Frenchies, their smooshed-up snouts pressed together.
“Perhaps we could discuss it over coffee?” At my place. In my bed. Or over that log just there!
Running Shorts smiles like I spoke aloud--did I?—and says, “Sounds perfect.”
