Then there was another dog that had jumped his leash, something like a Jack Russell Terrirer crossed with an evil NIMH rat, rocketing toward the very excited and boundingly intense black lab. There was a whole over-under-around-and-through thing that happened, and I was tied up quite handily between the leashes, being yanked off my feet by the baby moose on one side and dragging Sadie off her feet on the other. I'm there trying to get myself untied, hopping trying to keep my balance, trying to call Mosley off the rat creature, and that's when it started to get weird.
This woman appeared out of nowhere, got a hold of Mosely's collar and pulled him up and away from the rat thing. I lost my balance and fell over, yanking Sadie off balance with a yelp.
The woman walked over to me and started rubbing Sadie's ears.
Okay, dig: this chick is a stone hottie. Athletic body, not the weightlifter muscles, but the runner, smooth and sleek. She was wearing a spandex running outfit that was unfuckingbelievable, basically skin-tight, almost like a black-and white tankini, but with a bit more butt coverage. And no shit, she was wearing a mask over her eyes, one of those cheap-ass halloween costume half-masks with the black fuzzy front and the elastic strap to hold it on behind your head. And red lipstick. I shit you not. I'm figuring that either this is a prank, or this girl likes to dress in a superhero costume but has a limited budget. Gotta say, either way, I'm in.
I realized I was staring. "Uh, yeah, I think so."
"You look like you need some help."
She bent down to untie me. And she was really good with the twisting and untwisting thing and had me out of bounds in a matter of seconds. At least I think it was seconds. The time went by really fast.
"Damn, you're good at that." The words kinda poured out of my mouth, and it may have sounded more like Dan humid tat, since one of the leashes was still in my mouth.
Okay, it's hard to be suave when you're sitting on your ass being untied by a rather appealing but slightly weird stranger who seems to have a thing for ropes.
"I know," she said, and smiled just a little. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought she was shy.
"Hey, can I know your name?" I said. "I'd like to know who to thank." Yeah. Not enough 'o's in smoooooooth.
She got me up on my feet, looked into my eyes (oh, dear god those eyes were nice), and handed me a business card, black and white with:
And she ran off. And I watched her run off, pretty much mesmerized.
On the back of her card is a phone number. Handwritten.
So should I call the number?
Yes, you bastard, yes!
No. Never date the insane.