I have to stop and wonder where my mind is sometimes â€“ like â€“ I know that it is usually there for a joke â€“ or at the very least for some ridiculous non sequitur . . . but then there are other times where even I am stupefied with my stupification.
I was at a birthday party with a bunch of people â€“ where (at the time that this happened) I only knew the birthday girl and her better half. I was doing what I seem to do all too frequently . . . I was talking about my dog.
I need to set everyone straight for a second by making sure that you know that out of all of the creatures (people included) in the world â€“ I see my dog (Irving Brown Socks) far more than (probably) everybody else â€“ far â€“ far â€“ depressingly far more.
Anyway â€“ this girl asks me about the dog and I smartly give all of his particulars â€“ â€œHe is a 45 (forty-five) pound – 3 (three) year old â€“ boarder-collie black lab and his name is Irving Brown Socks!â€
The wheels fell off of the conversation when she then asked me what he looked like. Now â€“ that is a pretty simple question â€“ I mean I know his birthday â€“ and as much about his embedded collar as I care to . . . I know his quirks â€“ his schedule â€“ the things that he likes to do and the things that he shies away from â€“ bank all of that on top of the fact that â€“ in theory â€“ I lean towards the direction of being a visual person â€“ and the answer should have been a slam dunk.
My mind went totally blank. I started stumbling and mumbling about how he was black with some brown fur and that he wore white socks on his feet . . . but that was just the general information. So I stopped myself and came clean with the party. I couldnâ€™t remember what my dog looked like – and what an odd feeling that was. I said something along the lines of â€œLetâ€™s just say â€“ for the sake of argument â€“ that in some strange world the police put together a line-up of dogs . . . and that none of those dogs were showing any more love to me than any of the other dogs. Iâ€™m not entirely sure that â€“ as we speak â€“ that I would be able to pick my dog out of that line-up.â€
As I was saying â€“ Iâ€™m not sure what is wrong with me â€“ or my brain. It strikes me as being a bad thing to not even be able to remember what my dog looks like. Sometimes I feel like my brain is like a goose in the rain â€“ with all of the water of the world slipping right off of my back . . . or am I thinking of a duck?!
The end of the story is nice though. I had a nice sit down with the Irving â€“ and we came to a decision that to make up for my very social faux pas . . . I have offered him the position of press secretary for the organization . . . and before anyone even begins to scream about nepotism â€“ bear in mind that for one dull and dark moment in the world â€“ I forgot exactly what my dog looks like and I think that you will understand that middle management in an burgeoning multi-media empire with nothing but glass ceilings is the very least that he deserves . . .
Iâ€™m glad that he is able to forgive my brain. I am glad that he is my dog.