Paste you
Story type: Some h/c Hutch but mainly humor.
Title: MAN'S BEST FRIEND
Written by: Robbin Laffoon with much thanks to my dear friends Atrish1 (Trish), TLR, Robin C. and my son for their help.
Disclaimer: There are a few parts that some might think have homosexual overtones. The writer, however, wishes that this story to be read as Gen only. Thank you.
I like dogs. I like them a lot. You might go so far as to say that I love them.
Though as much as I adore them, Venice Place and Starsky's place has in the landlord/tenant rental agreement the words:
ABSOLUTELY NO PETS ALLOWED.
The intentional capitalization meaning there's not a snowball's chance in hell that Starsky's landlord or mine will ever let a pet, not even fish, live on their property.
Yet that doesn't stop me from daydreaming about what kind of canine I'd get if I could have one.
First making certain I'd gotten the dog from an excellent breeder and not from some cruel puppy mill, some days I want a Dalmatian. A female, and I'd name her Burnt Popcorn. Why? Because a Dalmatian's spots remind me of that. Sure, 'Burnt Popcorn' is a bit of a mouthful to say, but it would be more clever than calling her Pebbles or Dottie or Spot-don't you think?
Dalmatians are athletic creatures and may I add that this cop is also quite the athlete; I could take her to an outdoor park. One where she could run free. Not needing a leash hooked to the collar around her sleek neck while she swiftly ran next to my side.
Now speaking of real popcorn, everyone knows how disgusting scorched popcorn does smells. Does taste! And in reaction your nose scrunches up and your tongue runs across the roof of your mouth trying to get the nasty stuff out! But at the outdoor movie theaters the concession stand workers know how to cook it right.
At the movies and inside my Ford Galaxie, I would be eating their popcorn, although having passed on their offer of extra-butter. Occasionally I would pat my Dalmatian's head and give her some bites of the popcorn.
Now just because the concession stand's popcorn is real good doesn't mean they make everything right, but that doesn't ever stop Starsk from eating their popcorn along with a basketful of tacos.
Tacos with the meat looking as gross as Alpo Classic Chunky dog food.
And so help me if Starsky would ever think of sharing one of those tacos with my dog, I'd make him eat Alpo out of a can and for the rest of his life!
Some days while I'm wearing my Hush Puppies Shoes I want a Bassett Hound, though I know what Starsky thinks of them.
He thinks they're scent hounds, originally bred to hunt rabbits and hare, and he's right and for that reason he believes they are mean animals. But in my daydreams, I allow myself to have this kind of dog.
And maybe if I actually spoke out loud- pointing out to Starsk how friendly and good with kids the Bassett Hound is, he would quit thinking of them as cruel creatures.
(Sigh)
Maybe someday I will get an apartment that doesn't need daydreams to get myself a dog. Until then, Starsky and I are taking a country drive in his Striped Tomato and while he's doing the driving, I have my head turned to the right, looking out the front passenger window.
Starsk then puts his right hand on my left shoulder. "What you thinkin' about, Blintz?" he asks.
"Dogs," I say, without looking at him.
Then I do look at him and blurt out: "Starsk, don't you think it's the neatest thing to have a dog so excited about seeing you home from work it greets you at the door, knocking you flat on your butt and gives you dog kisses all over your face?"
"Not really," he says dryly, putting a hand on my forehead to see if I'm running a fever.
I'm not running a temperature, but lately my face flushes a rosy red when I'm talking passionately about something. A lot of the time the 'something' is a human female.
But a dog….They're not exactly the same species.
Still, just thinkin' about dogs from the animal kingdom has my face turning an embarrassing carnation pink.
Starsky then takes his hand off my forehead while I go back to looking out the front passenger window.
Gordo then starts humming the song "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?"
Turning my head to look back at him, "Starsk!" I say sounding more irritated than I really am. "Knock it off!"
Then giving him my most ferocious look, I growl.
He laughs, and then you know what he does? He pulls the car to the side of the road. Slamming the automatic gear shift into P for Park, before I know what hits me, he grabs me by the shoulders, knocking me flat on my back so that I'm pressed into the car seat.
Then you know what the clown does?
He starts licking my face.
"Starsk!" I giggle because it tickles.
"Get your paws off me or else I'm going to neuter you right here in the car!"
He purposely yelps and I giggle some more.
Then, quickly tiring of the silliness - feeling more foolish than I've felt in a long time -I explode.
"Seriously, Starsk! Let me loose!"
The idiot has the full weight of his dark blue t-shirted torso pressed firmly against my upper body. Pastels aren't something that all men have the guts to wear; I have on a pastel peach-colored dress shirt. Both of us have on blue jeans, I give him one more warning that if he doesn't get off me that I'm going to make good on my threat of neutering him and he's off me faster than someone could say, "Fido!"
We both sit up….
"Got a Kleenex?" I ask, and before he has a chance to answer, I open the Torino's glove box, finding some tissues.
Wiping his slobber promptly off my face, there's silence between us, when Starsky says, "I've got a brilliant idea!"
"Oh goody," I sarcastically think to myself. Sometimes Starsky's ideas are good. Real good! But most of the time when he says it as enthusiastically like he just did, I regret that he's come up with one of his brainstorms. We're no longer in the country, he eases his car out into city traffic and a little later I see we're at a large three-level retail mall.
One that has a carousel inside it.
A carousel that Starsky likes to ride and no doubt he's going to make me sit on one of them horses! Real horses are one thing, but carousel horses go up and down, up and down- uppp and dooown a brass pole, and just thinkin' about the up and down movement-before we can make it out of Starsky's car, I have a bad case of motion sickness.
Starsky notices my face flushing again and immediately notices the difference between me being passionate about something, and being sick.
Of course I'm giving him some signs to communicate that I'm feeling quite ill.
One of my palms is pressed over my stomach to keep my guts in place until I can think straight enough to get out of the car. I desperately need to toss my breakfast shake someplace other than inside his precious Torino!
Really concerned about his prized car, yet also concerned about my well-being, "I didn't drive to the mall for us to ride the carousel", he says.
"Really?" I muster to say.
Some of the nauseated look leaves my face and my hand comes off my stomach.
By the time we make it inside the mall I'm feeling even better, but Starsk suggests anyway that we go sit on the cement ledge of a circular in shape water fountain.
A water fountain that has a tendency to splash cool droplets of water on various areas of your body.
I sit and find the droplets that have hit exposed flesh -refreshing.
A few minutes go by and I'm no longer nauseous at all, Starsky voices that, "I'm not totally convinced of that, pal."
He walks over to the nearest fast food restaurant. Coming back with a large Styrofoam cup filled with root beer for him and handing me the same size cup filled with ginger ale, he continues with the 'mother-henning'. Inserting a plastic straw into my lid, he immediately motions with his left hand to take small sips.
His use of non-verbal commands reminds me of a master communicating with his dog- The dog immediately understands the hand gesture and doesn't give its owner any lip...any argument.
When I didn't give Starsk any trouble and obeyed him by not drinking my ginger ale too quickly, Starsky looked like he was getting ready to pat my head and say, "Good boy!"
Does that mean Starsky has turned into my master, and instead of me 'getting' a dog, I've turned into 'his' dog? Of course it doesn't, but if I were a dog, I wonder what kind I'd be?
Maybe some kind of tracking dog that could locate a missing child faster than what Starsky and the others frantically out looking for the kid could do on their own.
Eventually finishing off our soft drinks, Starsky points to a store. As we start walking over to it, I see a bright orange neon sign. The sign says "Pet Paradise" over the entrance door, before we can cross over the threshold, a bird that has gotten loose from its cage comes flying out of the store.
Unfortunately, finding great interest in my shiny blond locks, it plucks some hair right out of the top of my head.
I swear it was just one little finch, but I'd screamed "Ouch!", with Starsky yelling it even louder and as if I'd been attacked by a Golden Eagle-
(In his defense there was some blood oozing from my scalp an' where the finch had snatched my hair.)
A stranger handed over what appeared to be a clean white handkerchief, Starsky snatched it out of my hand, spitting on the cloth to moisten it. Dabbing my head with the cloth elicited a flinch from me, Starsky complained, "My idea of visiting a pet store so you could act like a buying customer obviously went sour. You can forget about holdin' and cuddling a puppy!" Not finished with his tirade, Starsky additionally informed me, "We are high-tailing it out of this mall before Godzilla finch comes back and takes some more of your hair!"
Now in the outdoor parking lot of the three-level retail mall and inside the Torino, Starsky still has the need to complain how that finch—that bird most likely had rabies.
I was thinking how absolutely absurd that was, but you ought to have seen Starsk freak-out when I intentionally foamed at the mouth.
"Gotcha!" I said.
He stuck out his tongue.
Instead of going to another place with a pet store, we went to The Pits. Though Huggy Bear's hamburgers are in the shape of Gaines-Burgers, they sure don't smell or taste like them.
How do I know?
Once when inside a grocery store, it only took one look at the ingredients in the dog food patties to tell me all I ever needed to know about Gaines-Burgers!
Then looking at Starsky sitting across the booth from me eating his hamburger- as I sat here thinking of all the times he has protected me, how much I value his loyalty and companionship-I realized that I didn't need a dog after all when Starsky, and not any kind of canine, was my forever best friend.
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