One time my wife got in an argument, and the other party got so angry, he said, “I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire!”
- It was unlikely she would ever catch on fire.
- Even if she did, the guy probably wouldn’t be there.
- Even if he were, would she really want him to urinate on her?
- Even if she did want this, would a modest amount of urine be effective against fire?
Plus, wouldn’t that method of fire-extinguishing just make a bad situation worse? Great! First I catch fire, and then this asshole from five years ago shows up.
As long as the angry guy was making pronouncements, I told Aleen she should go back and lock up a wider promise — that he not piss on her ever, regardless of whether she was on fire.
It reminded me of a line in the Clint Eastwood movie The Outlaw Josey Wales: “Don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining.”
I would simplify this directive even further. Don’t piss down my back at all. In fact, don’t piss on any part of me — head, torso, or extremities.
When my kids were little, I stopped playing hide-and-seek with them because every time I would find them, they would squeal with delight and panic, and then pee all over themselves and the living-room curtains.
Which leads me to yesterday.
I fed my dog. I took him to the park. I spent 25 minutes throwing a tennis ball for him and lavishing him with praise and attention.
When we were about to leave, he trotted across the park to the sunny rock where I had left my shirt and jacket, and, you guessed it, he sprayed them.
(Or as my brother’s friend in law enforcement once heard over the police radio, “What the fuck, over.”)
You don’t need to be the Dog Whisperer to realize there was something deeply uncool about this situation, something totally out of balance. Koyaanisqatsi, as the Hopi Indians supposedly used to say.
A woman at the park tried to tell me it was an act of love, a way for Boomer to cement the already strong bond between us.
I told her the bond actually just got weaker.
Anyway, I had the feeling this lady was doing exactly what Fletcher cautioned against in Josey Wales. She was, well, you get the idea.