A couple of weeks ago (before my life was consumed with this), I had a wonderful date with a dog named Murray. He belongs to Chris and Beanie, two friends who live in Morrison. (Beanie is my horse teacher.)
I called up, nice and proper, and asked: "Can Murray come out to play?" I picked him up Saturday morning and off we went. Bless his doggie heart, he was so excited he sported a giant boner all the way back to Denver.
Reid came along and just like that, my two favorite Colorado boys were in one spot. Bliss! We took Murray for walks, played ball with him and introduced him to Beaudreaux, Reid's cat. (Murray could care less - he lives with two cats - but Bo was fascinated. Pretty hilarious.)
We also made a stop at Petco, where I bought Murray a massive $13 pork bone. He proceed to ignore said bone until Reid's teenage son and all his friends showed up. Something about the surge of testosterone in the room made Murray suddenly very interested in it.
Murray slept right next to me the whole night. It was pure heaven.
So, why write about my doggie date two weeks after the fact? Because I'm stressed out, hungover, tired and could sure use a doggie kiss right about now.