Talulah understand trajectory better than you

Talulah is a gifted little canine.

There’s a wall bordering where we take her out to throw the ball. Talulah’s favorite game is when I throw the ball — using a Chuck-It! — at an angle against the wall.

She is able to assess the trajectory and speed very quickly, and determine the necessary speed and direction she needs to run in order to intercept and catch the ball.

Often, her catch is more of a snatch than a catch. She grabs the ball out of the air as it enters from the side and compensates for the speed with a head jerk.

It’s really quite phenomenal.

When I throw the ball at the wall, you can see the steam exiting her ears as her mind works to do that math.

Now, I know she’s not doing math. But it’s doggie math. It’s athleticism. Let’s call it, mathleticism.

If you’ve seen her do it, which many of you have seen, you know that it’s somewhat astonishing to witness. She’s no walking-on-water Yeshua, namely because she does her miracles in real life. Her abilities require little to absolutely no faith.

Honk.

Of course, my little noggin starts working through how to integrate this mathleticism into a blog post.

I want to work this talent into a post about how Talulah understand trajectory better than people who support — say — conservative values. She understands how to achieve her goals better than any conservative I’ve ever met. Talulah knows that she can’t follow the ball outright. She has to meet the ball at the place where it’s going to be.

A dog just learning this trick tends to run straight after the ball. Straight thinking is the literal definition of Orthodoxy. Conservatives LOVE straight thinking.

Here’s a conservative thought process:

We have a menu. Let’s stick to that menu … we need to stick to the plan. Don’t veer from it. It says here that slavery is okay. But civil rights cannot include that. We must drag our feet. Oh yeah, you’re right. Slavery is not okay. Even though our menu says it’s okay. It’s not. Now let’s concentrate on homosexuality …

See. Conservatives follow the ball.

Liberals check the trajectory and speed. They meet the ball where it’s going to land.

And just like when an obstacle or notch in the wall redirects Talulah’s ball forcing her to redirect her plan of attack, liberals are able to work with lame-ass, orthodox conservatives when they force the ball in different directions.

Then again, Talulah understands trajectory way better than you.

Hey, hottie, how do you like my socks?

Earlier this week, I took Talulah out back to play Chuck-It!, which is Talulah’s favorite fetch game of all time.

It was scheduled to be a hot-ass day, and I was determined during the hottest days that I would take T out twice a day in two shorter spurts. The heat saps Talulah’s energy faster, but yet she has more energy later in the day if I don’t.

This was our second outing.

I grabbed Talulah’s leash, the ball, the Chuck-it and poop bags. “I’m taking Talulah out again,” I yelled to Tina as I left. Our play area is just past the alley behind our place. It’s a perfect strip of grass for  throwing the ball.

As we go out, I make Talulah sit while we cross the alley to make sure no cars are coming.

Off in the distance, I noticed a blonde woman walking her dog on the leash. She was close enough that by the time I got to the top of the hill, if I threw the ball, it might be awkward, since some people aren’t thrilled to see a pit bull off leash.

So I made Talulah lie down, and wait for her to pass.

The closer she got, the cuter this stranger became. She was wearing a sun dress with reds and blues. It was beautiful flowery print. She was wearing black leggings that were visible just under the bottom hem of the dress. On her right arm was a bird tattoo. Her nose was pierced, and her eyes were piercing blue.

“May we say hello?” she called out. It took me by surprise. Usually the most people say is hello.

“Of course.” I said. “Although she gets a little OCD about her ball. So she might not …” At that point, Talulah got up and gave this other dog a good sniff or two.

Referring to her dog, the stranger said, “She gets a little aggressive on her leash. I noticed that your dog was calm, and it would be a good training opportunity.”

Within our staggered, cumbersome conversation, I noticed the size of her chest. Her boobs were bigger, but pulled together by some kind of tube top perhaps. They bounced with every step.

We had one of those moments when her leash tangled around my legs. I noticed the freckles on her face.

Beautiful women make me nervous, and this was no exception.

(You should see me bumble around Tina).

At some point I admitted that Talulah was also aggressive on her leash. “I think it’s a leash thing. Off leash, she’s so much better.”

The blonde nodded. I noticed her size me up a little, too (maybe?).

“Did she notice my wedding ring? I hope my hair isn’t too big right now,” I thought.

Meanwhile, I noticed more art on her neck and shoulder. I could have fanned myself.

Our interaction lasted all of 30 seconds. And off she walked down the trail. I watched her go. I couldn’t help it. Evolution gifted me with a libido-laden voyeurism that is difficult to ignore.

When she was 20 feet away, I threw Talulah’s ball the other direction. I turned back to watch a little longer.

“Whoa,” I said out loud. “So flipping cute.”

Talulah came back with the ball. It squishes and squeaks in her teeth as she munches on it before laying it back down in front of me.

I was thinking of all the things I wanted to say, like, “Gosh, you have a really cool look,” and “Don’t take this as a come on, but you are so hot” just before doing a Chuck Jones cartoon character eye-ball, ooga ooga routine.

Looking down at the ball that Talulah dropped, I caught a glimpse of myself. I was wearing a ratty, old yellow shirt with the graphics all coming off. I had on brown pants that were stained from cooking. I was wearing those soccer flip flops with mismatched blue and black socks.

And to top it off, we inherited a leash from Talulah’s daycare that is fucking purple with a bright pink poop bag holder attached to the end. I was wearing this sweet, purple leash around my chest, like a Mexican drug lord wears his ammo holster.

It was at that very moment when I thought, “No, she wasn’t looking at my wedding ring.”