The more boys I meet, the more I love my dog

Several summers ago, a boy actually asked me out on a date. (This is a true rarity, but we will revisit this subject matter at a later date).  

It was a beautiful summer night, so I suggested we go down to the dam and throw a line out and try and catch some pickerel before sunset.  He was driving out from the city, so I requested he pick up 'refreshments' (aka Budweiser and old dutch chips - the two staples in my diet), and I would supply the fishing rods and the bait.  Now, I realize I am a little bit hick, but even though it was a date, we would still be sitting on a creek bank swatting mosquitos and yanking oversized catfish off our hooks - so I chose to dress appropriately. Cut-offs, a red and blue flannel button-up wrangler shirt, and rubber boots. I drove down to the creek, parked in the bushes, and waited for my partner in crime to show up with snacks.  Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Hey! Can you come into town and pick me up? I just washed my car and don't want to drive gravel."

Strike one.

I met him in town and parked beside his steel gray mustang.  My date for the evening emerged from his V6 with a six pack of.... imported beer.....in bottles? Six? That's like... three each?  Wait a minute, that ain't right. Did he not get the memo? What part of 'refreshments' doesn't he understand....? A curt moment of confusion must have shocked my face, because he looked mildly confused after so proudly presenting his token.  I changed the subject.

"You gonna fish in those?" I nod to his shoes. He must be new. He's wearing a deep v-neck t-shirt, a pair of dark, slim jeans, and loafers.  LOAFERS, people.  We're going FISHING. 

Strike two.

After we park, I lead the way down to the creek, and Pretty Boy carefully picks his away around the puddles until we find a clearing and sit down in the grass.  I waste no time in throwing out a line, hoping to make up time as the daylight around us is fading quickly.  Pretty Boy stays seated beside me, reaches for a beer bottle, selects one, and then pauses.

"Chandra?" 

My attention to my taut fishing line is briefly interrupted.

"Hmm?"

"Do you have a bottle opener?" He asks.

"Do I have a bottle opener?"

"Yeah. These are imported beers.  They aren't twist-offs."

Strike ...ah, two and a half.  He's pretty cute.

Pretty Boy spent the next half hour trying to Macgyver the tops off the beer bottles off. His last resort proved to meet success as he used a flat stone to slice the very top of the bottle off, exposing a jagged edge to meet our thirsty lips.  We fished in sporadic silence (I fished, he sat in the tall grass and answered any questions I directed at him.  How's your job? What are you doing this summer? Why are you wearing loafers? Know how I know you're gay?) and when I had exhausted all hope of genuine conversation or procuring any fish, I curled up in the grass beside him, hoping to spark some embers and revive the dregs of this outing.  He and I found ourselves in the very middle of a country song as a hot pink ribbon of sunset dissolved into the horizon and the stars appeared brighter than I have ever seen in a crystal clear night sky.  The creek bubbled, frogs and crickets sang softly in the background, and the soft breeze lifted my hair off my shoulders.

"One more?" Pretty Boy handed me a beer and fixed his attention onto his bottle - the last bottle, tapping the stone along the neck,  harder and little harder yet, and suddenly the glass imploded, sending small fireworks of glass sparkles everywhere - followed by blood. 

"My shoes!" Pretty Boy cried out into the night.

"Are you okay?" I lept to my feet, searching for something to wrap his shredded hand in. My mind wandered immediately. Do I have bandaids in my car? Will my grade three quack-grass braiding skills hold up in an emergency like this? Is there an artery in your hand? Will he bleed to death? Does this mean I don't have to finish my beer?

Strike three. That's it. You draw blood on the first date, and it's time for me to cut my losses.

The date ended prematurely on that note, and I never saw him again - until the following Sunday at church, where my curiosity got the best of me and I had to ask about his hand.  It looked much worse than it actually was. Sometimes I wonder if he still has the scar..

The more boys I meet, the more I love my dog.