A bulldog peed on me. An amiable little slob, it sniffed at my ankles and the next thing I know, warm seepage on my pant leg. I was dumbstruck. Its owner was horrified.
Just moments ago we were chatting in the sunshine, both on a dog walk with our little loves. Now she stammered profuse apologies. I said, “It’s OK, we’re both dog owners. It happens.” The owner should have just stopped with sincere apologies, but no.
Here’s what NOT to say when your dog marks territory on a human leg:
“He didn’t mean it. I’m sure he wanted to mark that leaf in front of you but he missed.”
Note to Doggy Psychics: clearly, he needed to label me as his very own. Or he mistook me for a stump. Gee, could I possibly feel worse? It’s best if we don’t delve into his psyche (or yours).
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe this. I’m very sorry! So very sorry!”
Thirty apologies and counting. Look, I did not overhear you say, “Go pee on her! That’s my good boy!” It wasn’t your fault and I know it. However, the hot wetness has turned cold heavy and cold. Please stop blathering so I can make a beeline for my car.
“I am so mortified. I feel terrible! This is so humiliating!”
Do you mean humiliating for you or for me standing here with urine soaked shins? I will never look at my favorite pair of jeans the same way. Do I really have to spend ten minutes making you feel better? Like I said, I need to get to my car.
My two cent theory is that life happens. Dogs lift their legs and sometimes it’s on you. An observation: the stink of dog pee intensifies exponentially to the number of cars driving past that won’t let you make a left turn into the street. Do the big brains at MIT have a two cent theory for that?