Dogs Don’t Smoke Cigarettes

6:00 p.m. Starbucks.

I have to be somewhere at seven.

Which means I need to be on the road in twelve minutes.

But first, coffee.

Because some things are non-negotiable.

I pull into the parking lot and back into a space.

Across from me is a Sprinter van.

Also backed in.

And sitting in the driver’s seat is a dog.

Not just sitting there.

Watching.

Intently.

Staring through the Starbucks windows like he’s waiting for an employee meeting to start.

And hanging from his mouth is what appears to be…

a cigarette.

I blink.

Look away.

Look back.

No.

That can’t be right.

I lean forward a little.

The dog still appears to be smoking.

Now I’m invested.

I sit there trying to figure out what exactly is hanging out of this dog’s mouth because I am fairly certain dogs do not smoke cigarettes.

At least not regularly.

I head inside.

There are exactly two customers.

Me.

And a guy.

A guy who looks suspiciously like he belongs to the Sprinter van.

Which means he probably belongs to the dog.

I walk over.

“Is your dog smoking in your van?”

The look on his face is immediate confusion.

“What?”

“Is that your van?”

“Yeah.”

“Your dog is smoking.”

Now he’s looking out the window trying to see what I’m talking about.

I’m laughing.

He’s laughing.

Neither of us can really see the dog from where we’re standing.

Then he figures it out.

“Oh. It’s probably the drool.”

Apparently Rip, the dog, is a world-class drooler.

Mystery solved.

From there the conversation takes off.

His name is Mike.

He’s in construction.

He got Rip while working a job in Oregon for people who breed dogs.

Fell in love with the puppy.

Finished the project.

Went back later when Rip was old enough.

Brought him home.

And now the dog goes everywhere.

Everywhere.

He tells me about a recent guys’ trip.

Apparently the dog attended.

Apparently the friends had concerns.

Apparently Rip ended up surfing.

At this point I’m standing in Starbucks listening to stories about a dog who has a more active social life than most people.

And somewhere during all of this I notice Mike has ridiculously blue eyes.

Construction guy.

Red Wings and a Dixxon.

Funny.

Maybe a little short.

Not bad.

Not bad at all.

Then my coffee is ready.

Because Starbucks has absolutely no respect for a developing storyline.

“Molly.”

There it is.

The end of the scene.

I grab my drink.

Introduce myself.

Shake his hand.

Tell him to have a good night.

And leave.

No number.

No flirting.

No dramatic movie ending.

Just coffee acquired.

Mission accomplished.

I get back in my car.

Look at Rip one more time.

Definitely not smoking.

And as I pull onto the freeway I start doing what people do.

I start playing the tape forward.

Maybe I should have stayed longer.

Maybe I should have talked more.

Maybe I should have asked for his number.

Maybe…

And then another thought arrives.

This man has a dog that goes everywhere.

Everywhere.

The truck.

The job sites.

The vacations.

The guys’ trips.

The surfing adventures.

And suddenly I’m imagining dog hair.

Drool.

A passenger seat permanently occupied by Rip.

Me competing with a dog for front-seat privileges.

And I realize something.

I don’t dislike dogs.

But I’m not exactly a dog person either.

Which means somewhere between Starbucks and the freeway I managed to start and end an entire relationship that never happened.

All because of a dog who looked like he was smoking a cigarette.

And honestly, that’s probably for the best.

I had somewhere to be.

He had somewhere to be.

Rip had important supervisory duties to attend to from the driver’s seat.

Some encounters aren’t meant to become anything.

They’re just little moments.

A funny story.

A good laugh.

A reminder that people are interesting.

And sometimes the best conversations happen because you ask a complete stranger why his dog is smoking in the van.

For the record:

The dog wasn’t smoking.

It was drool.

Dogs don’t smoke cigarettes.

At least not the good boys.