The night I met my wife at a bar in Salt Lake City, she told me she had a black lab named Max.
I stared at this girl, this Monica chick, trying to figure out what the catch was with her. She seemed too good to be true and then she dropped the dog bomb and, well, I sort of lost my game. I was beginning to feel my heart race hard.
Something was up. My blood was on fire. I took another shot of Jager and tried my hardest to act cool, or at least to contain my inner spazz, but it was tough.
I told her how much I loved dogs.
She told me she got Max when he was just eight weeks old and that he was the sweetest guy in the world.
I almost feel off my bar stool.
Was I inside of a dream?
The more she talked about him the more savagely attracted to her I became.
Gorgeous women aren’t always easy to chat up. But smart, sophisticated, beautiful ladies with a dog of their own, and a black lab to boot: it was almost too much to comprehend. My mind started exploding after about ten minutes of talking with Monica that night. And the detonations are still popping off up there. (Which probably helps explain why I rarely say or do the right thing any more, huh? My damn mind exploded years ago, ya’ll!)
Anyway, we ordered more drinks and talked dogs for awhile. I explained to her that because I was so nomadic, constantly in some far-off city touring with my band, I had gone for many lonely years now without even being able to dream of having a pup of my own. It had become something that I just had to sacrifice if I wanted to play music for a living. She told me how Max loved to ride around with her in her truck and hang out the window as they took long drives in the mountains where she lived.
I guess I fell in love with two hearts that night. Two months later, me and Monica got married one evening at a judge’s house.
Not long after that three of us climbed up into a giant moving truck one Sunday morning and pulled out of Utah. We were bound for glory in New York City.
Me and her and a dog named Max.
This is his
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