When Internal Monologues Attack

I'm saddened by how many of my stories begin with the phrase "so, I was delivering a pizza...." Lately I'm also a little grossed out by it, since the dark recesses of my mind recently provided an image to serve as the mental slide show accompaniment to that phrase each time I say it. The image is of myself in green scrubs, hunched down in the classic quarterback pose, looking expectantly between the widespread legs of a very unhappy woman who is about to be the very proud mother of a large combo with extra cheese, half no olives.

So, I was delivering a pizza, and the moment I knocked on the door a cacophony of yapping erupted from the other side (of the door, not, to my knowledge, the afterlife). This is not a rare occurrence. In a world with little dogs behind closed doors, there will always be yapping. And when those doors are opened, there will always be jumping. People who own dogs below a certain height and weight should understand that pizza obstetricians have resolved themselves to the yapping and the jumping and that they find the yapping and the jumping to be far less annoying than listening to the owners say "No! Stay! Down! Sorry. No! Honey, get him. No! Back! Down! Don't worry, he's just— Stay! Honey, would you­­— No! Hey! Down! Just get the— Down! Down! No! Down! Good boy. Good boy. What a good boy! No! Down!" etc. My only consolation during such a production is that the pizza is only getting colder.

Annoyed in anticipation, I was actually relieved when the door opened and one of the dogs immediately got past its owners and jumped up on me in a vain attempt to reach my knees as though the world depended on it. Usually this would indicate that the owners A) don't care or B) are mortified and will do everything in their power to expedite the transaction and send me on my way so they can commence abusing their untrained pet in retribution—so basically a win-win.

Instead I got option C) the owners are not in agreement about what to do with the dogs or about whose idea it was to get a dog and then another dog and then another dog or about the wisdom of letting one impulsive decision made during a power outage ten years ago dictate where you live and what you do for a living and what kind of car you drive and what you order on a pizza for the rest of your life.

"Honey, don't let—" she said.

"He's alright. Don't worry. He's just gonna jump on you a little bit," he said.

"Come here! Down! Sorry. I'm so sorry. Get down! Come here. Come on," she replied.

"Hey buddy," I said.

Meanwhile I was enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. The little dog was harmless. So happy, so delighted to meet me. Why, lady, why do you apologize for this little moment of unbridled mirth? And why, sir, don't you help your wife?

I tried to imagine the kind of person who would be upset in my position, and in succeeding to do so, I turned the situation into an incident.

"I hate little dogs!" I yelled.

Both man and woman stared at me, aghast.

Why are they... oh crap, they don't know me. That's the longest sentence they've ever heard me say. Quick, do something to make it better.

"Don't, um... don't make me pet them."

Good not great. Now seal the deal.

Awkward smile.

"Oh," she said.

I think I saved their marriage.