Come Here, You

When I first got baby Violet, my brother and sister-in-law drove an hour to my place to meet her. This was when I lived in that mill house in Hillsborough. Bruce is allergic to all things furry, so we decided to take the puppy for a walk — outside, he would be able to breathe at least a little bit. I put Violet’s tiny collar around her tiny neck and clipped her tiny leash to it (she weighed about 25 pounds).

On our stroll, she was, as puppies are, all over the place — zigging and zagging, chewing at the leash and getting under foot, too excited because of the smells! sights! air! life! to pee or poop. We were all delighting in the 100% present-in-the-moment-ness that is the life of a puppy. But as we headed back to the house, the tiny clip on her tiny collar popped open and she was free — FREE! — and she started to bolt.

I. freaked. out.

I’d had this dog for, what?, a day or two?, and already she was going to get lost in the woods across the road and starve or, worse, hit by a car? People drove so fast on my road! Panicking, I yelled, “Violet!” and ran after her. She thought that was pretty great and picked up her pace.

Behind me — histamine response be damned — my brother squatted, opened his arms wide, and said, “Come here, you!” in a decidedly silly-sweet tone. Violet’s head jerked around. She went bounding toward him, and he scratched her head, and she flopped on her back. And I walked to them and clipped her tiny collar back on.

I don’t know why my brain recalled this incident yesterday or then why it occurred to me that this, sweetness/silliness/arms wide open/”Come here, you!”, would be a much better approach to dating than the cynicism/fear/arms forming an X in front of my face/”Not this shit again” that is my current one. But it did.

So with that, despite the fact that I overdid it on Gluten Sunday yesterday thus I’m battling fatigue, and that I’m PMSing (bonus: pyimples!), I’m off to meet Mr. OBD.

Come here, you.