What can I say, I like weird people. Always have. Girlfriends’ll tell me about a guy who sang them a little song he wrote them on the first date or one who fit a whole orange in his mouth and they wrinkle up their nose, expecting me to be appalled. Meanwhile I’m like “Wait, you’re saying you don’t want to see this guy again?”
My friend Roy knows me, and so he sets me up with this mad scientist pal of his, or that’s how he bills him anyway. But the mad scientist talks about TV shows I don’t watch and the renovations he’s planning for his deck. Sometimes I wonder if normal people really are interested in the stuff they talk about or if they’re all as bored as I am and just being polite.
In short, I’m getting restless. So when he asks me to come up to the lab and see what’s on the slab, I say hells yeah.
We’re poking around his basement and I see a glass jar with something yellowish in it. I move closer and I see a paw pad pressed against the glass, and fur, and a stubby tail.
“It’s a puppy, or would have been. The mother died and we extracted her pups, six of them, when I was in vet school,” says the scientist.
I picked up the jar and turned it to study from every angle. The head was at the bottom of the spiraled form. The side of the mouth was a black slit pressed flat against the jar’s base.
“Would you like to have it?” he asked.
“A jar of dog? Of course I’d like to have it.”
That gift won him another date, but we fizzled soon after that. I moved the jar all over my house, but never found the right place for it. In the kitchen was too macabre even for me. The bathroom was too crowded. In the bedroom it took too much surface area, and in the living room it made my niece cry. The next fellow I dated was a science teacher, and I gave it to him for his birthday.