Cowboys, Indians, and Brothels
Eric Kobb Miller
It was her eyes, those dark, flirtatious, come-hither eyes, that grabbed you by the throat and in the heart, while silently saying "Hey, cowboy, you're my kind of guy; whatta ya say?" I said "Hop in beautiful; let's take a ride." She sat quietly, taking me in with one eye, while looking out the window with the other.
Despite the rather garish bow in her hair and a perfume that was way too strong for my nose, and reeking havoc with my genetic code for allergic reaction, there was no doubt that she was a very special damsel who evoked nobility like no other. I lowered the window on my side of the car to flush out the allergens, but as I continued to sneeze, I was forced to lower the window on her side of the car as well. As the wind blew through her hair, she looked even more beautiful than before, especially when she would look over at me with those seductive eyes.
I dropped her off at her house, and then I made my way home.
"Oh my, where have you been, or more precisely, with whom have you been? You smell like a French brothel," my wife of 40 years observed, playfully.
"Mon Dieu, ma chérie, but how would you, of all people, know what a French brothel smells like," I returned, glad that her first serve was in.
"A woman knows," she volleyed back. "I must confess that I am quite disappointed that my Eagle Scout husband would enter such a place. Do you have an itch?" she asked quizzically.
"An itch?" I repeated. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"You know, the guy thing: the seven year itch, wandering eyes, and old man dreams."
"I may be an old man, but I am still a man, and real men, with proper testosterone levels, appreciate beauty. Our eyes do not wander; they scan in wonder and appreciation," I replied, enjoying the sustained rally.
"Oh, pulleeeze! I bet that you'll give me an equally colorful explanation for the hairs all over your clothes," my wife smashed back at me right on the baseline.
"Well, yes, I can explain that," I replied, out of breath as my run to her return fell short of the ball.
"I'm sure you can," my wife said, with more derision than I would have expected from the mother of our children. "So, tell me about LaLa, or Lulu, or Lola, or whatever her name is."
"The lady’s name is Piper," I stated, curtly.
"Piper, what kind of name is that?"
"Shichon," I replied, smugly.
"She's a Native American, a Shoshone Indian?" my wife asked, incredulously.
"No, she's a Shichon, not a Shoshone," I corrected.
"Shichon, Shoshone, whatever."
"Well," I cut in. "I don't think a Shoshone Indian would take kindly to being called a Shichon."
"Because a Shichon is a dog."
"I’ve never heard of a Shichon dog,"
"It's a cross between a Shih Tzu and a Bichon Frise."
"I’ve never heard of either one of them," she admitted. "So, you're trying to make me believe that your friend from the French brothel is a dog?"
"Au contraire, she is lovely, as well as being a dog."
"I give up," my wife exclaimed. "I'm listening. Tell me the story."
"You give up way too fast these days, ma chérie. Peut-être, it is you who are aging, pas moi. It is really a very simple tale. My secretary was in a bind and asked if I would pick up her dog, Piper, at the groomer and drop her off at her house on my way home. The poor creature was distraught being left at that horrid emporium, where they sheered her naked, wrapped her in god awful ribbon, and sprayed her with what you would call 'Eau de French Brothel'. Piper couldn't stand all the loose hairs all over her naked body and kept shaking herself in my car, setting off an explosion of white hairs that not only settled all over the upholstery, but on my clothes as well."
"Point, game, set, match: Mr. Wonderful," my wife announced with a smile. "Great match, Darling, as usual, just like us." Her dark eyes glistened flirtatiously, with that come-hither look. She helped me off with my aromatic dog hair covered clothes, threw them in the hamper, took my hand, and led me to the boudoir.