Mr. Cute Guy's Dog Free Dating, Singles and Personals

Mr. Cute Guy's Dog Posted: 7/29/2009 5:14:02 AM
I was sitting at a traffic light in the Texas Hill country lost in thoughts of the day. I was preparing for a road trip from Texas to Florida, and had just left the tire store with four new tires, and a considerably lighter wallet. I hated to spend the money, but it was a necessary disbursal; my tires were old and would likely not make it another 1,200 miles. When traveling I prefer to avoid the Interstate and use the more scenic and less frantic country highways, and the last thing I needed was a flat tire somewhere in Nobody-Ever-Passes-Through-Here-On-Purpose, Louisiana, with a population of four, and no service station. My eldest daughter, 18, was in the passenger seat, prattling on about some inconsequential thing and I had been participating in the conversation with an occasional “uh huh,” or an “is that so?” Sometimes being involved in a conversation with a teenager is a simple matter of being a warm body, but a sudden long, drawn out gasp from her actually got my full attention. “What is it?” I gripped the steering wheel, sure that there was an out of control semi headed straight at us. I was jerked unwillingly out of planning mode, and thrust headlong into imminent crisis mode and the abrupt transition left me slightly breathless. “Mom ... look at that guy next to us! Isn't he cute?” Is this what had prompted all the drama? “Yeah, yeah, he's cute.” I agreed, pretending to look while wondering if I needed to have the transmission flushed. She was not fooled. “Mom, you didn't even look! He's hot! Why can't I ever meet anybody like that?” I glanced at the truck sitting next to us at the light. It was a newer flatbed truck, pulling a trailer of some sort. Why couldn't she meet someone like that? Well, for starters, he was probably twice her age ... in his thirties, maybe, but I had to admit he was attractive. “Yeah, “ I replied, “he is kinda cute. I wonder if that new coat I bought will fit into the blue suitcase, maybe if we sit on the lid we can force ...” “His dog is cute, too. What kind of dog is that?” Mr. Cute Guy and Mr. Cute Dog—this couldn't get any more precious. I leaned back in the seat and looked at the dog that was perched on the open bed of the truck. The dog was short and stocky, a mottled gray and black color with large, perky ears. “I think it's a blue heeler, I'm not quite sure,” I said. If someone had told me then that in the space of less than five minutes that same dog would be sitting in the seat of the truck between the two of us, I would have been more than mildly surprised. Suffice it to say that due to a rogue wind, or maybe a sudden failure in canine balance, my daughter got her wish to meet Mr. Cute Guy. After we pulled away from the light the highway opened up and the speed limit increased to 45 miles an hour. We came around a bend in the road, and there in the middle of our lane stood Mr. Cute Dog, looking more than a little dazed and confused. “Don't hit him, Mom!” my daughter cried. “I'm not going to hit him!” “That's the cute guy's dog!” “I know,” I said, pulling over to the side of the road. The flatbed truck and trailer were nowhere to be seen. “See if you can get him in here.” My daughter opened the passenger door. “C'mon buddy! C'mon!” The dog needed no coaxing. It seemed pretty clear that he had already figured out that he was in a tight spot. The pads of his feet were bleeding a little and I noticed that a couple of his toenails were in pretty bad shape. He settled himself in the seat between my daughter and me, and whined once and turned worried eyes on me. “Don't worry, fella,” I said, and scratched him behind the ear, “we'll catch him.” I took off down the highway wishing I had paid more attention to Mr. Cute Guy's truck. It had something written on the side—well digging? Electric service? What if he'd already turned off the highway? With the twists, turns, rises and valleys of the hill country it would be easy to lose sight of one truck pulling a trailer. Why hadn't I noticed the signage on the truck? Any other time my mind has a tendency to memorize useless information, but right now it was occupied with the pending trip—there was no room left for trivia. What if we didn't catch him? How would I get this dog back to his owner? One look at the dog's worried face and I made up my mind right then and there that I would catch the guy. I would find him no matter how long it took or how much it cost. The dog seemed to be able to read my mind as he leaned forward, not taking his eyes off the road in front of us. I wove in and out of traffic, mildly abusing the speed limit, the three of us straining to catch sight of Mr. Cute Guy's truck amid the rest of the traffic on the road. Just when I thought it was useless, I spotted him, and laid on the horn. At the sight of the truck the dog's ears went up and he leaned forward with his nose practically touching the windshield. “Look, back, mister, please look back,” I muttered. After some driving worthy of Mario Andretti, I finally maneuvered to within one car length of the guy's trailer, and then like a gift, the truck slid into the turn lane and pulled off the highway onto a side road. The look on Mr. Cute Guy's face when he got out of his truck was priceless. “I looked into my side mirror and saw my dog ... in your truck! What happened? I've had this dog for years and he has never jumped out!” “I don't think he had a choice in the matter,” I said, and opened my door and got out, “he landed hard, and his feet are in pretty rough shape.” Mr. Cute Guy just kind of stood there looking at his dog. He looked like a little kid who had just been informed that sorry, Billy, despite what you have been told, there is no Santa Claus. Or an Easter bunny or Tooth Fairy. Peter Pan does not know how to fly and there is no gold at the end of the rainbow. He looked like everything he'd ever believed in was a lie. He clearly loved the dog and was trying to figure out whether to feel betrayed or guilty. “Look,” I said, “I'm sure it was an accident, accidents do happen, even to dogs. And he seems okay, his feet are bleeding a little but he hopped right into my truck with no effort.” My daughter got out and let the dog out. Mr. Cute guy went on remote and grabbed a T-shirt out of his truck and began mopping at the blood smears on my vinyl seat. “Don't worry about that,” I said, and patted the dog on the head for old time's sake. My daughter smiled shyly at Mr. Cute Guy, and we left him to ponder this unexpected hitch in his day. I glanced in the rear view mirror and watched as Mr. Cute Guy loaded the dog into the back seat of his truck. “He must be really shook up,” I murmured, “those seats are leather and that truck is brand new.” I glanced at my daughter. “Did you think for one second back at that light, that you'd ever actually meet that guy?” “No!” She giggled, and then frowned. “I didn't even think to get his name ... or the dog's name! For that matter he doesn't know our names, so I guess technically I didn't get to meet him.” “Well, that may be so, “ I replied, “but something tells me he won't soon forget us.”