I’m on the bus with Gams and I’m trying to keep her sitting locked between my legs, but a noisy moving bus makes her anxious. And a bus filled with new strangers, whom she sees as potential new friends, gets her excited. So she’s fidgety. Very fidgety: leaping, jumping, alligator rolling, trying at all costs to get out from in between my legs, out of her collar and into the lap of the lady sitting across from me.
Luckily, she’s so small people think she’s merely a pup. That makes most very forgiving. Some even think her fish out of water behavior is cute. I’m getting a mix of emotionless, get-your-dog-under-control stares, to head cocked, isn’t-that-adorable gazes.
Then a man with long gray hair in a tie-dyed t-shirt with a cut-off jean vest gets on the bus, sits next to me and offers his hand to Gamble. This just gets her more excited and now she’s attempting to jump into his lap instead.
He laughs and says “Wow, and when you couldn’t find that money you keep stashed under your bed you thought your boyfriend stole it to buy drugs – I think your dog took it!” (“Blah blah blah your boyfriend blah blah blah” have you read this? You should)
I smile, trying hard not to get creeped out that sketchy hippy man is daydreaming about what’s hiding underneath my bed. He continues: “I think your dog’s the one with the drug problem! You better get her to doggie rehab before she hits rock bottom!” He laughs at himself, at his own joke. A deep throaty smokers laugh that fades into a fatal sounding cough.
I can’t figure out if he’s joking, high, or crazy, but luckily it’s my stop. I drag Gamble off the bus (she’s still trying to get into his lap) and thank the driver as I exit. I see the man slowly wave goodbye, his eyes glazed over, as the bus pulls away. If that money under my bed really does go missing -- I blame him.