If you’ve ever dated a cocksucker, chances are you know how to spy. Needless to say, I’m quite awesome in the craft of sneaking around to bust people who like to sneak around.
I’ve broken into voicemail boxes (If your man grew up in the ’90s, it’s simple: some variation of Michael Jordan’s number) and email accounts, staked out houses in unmarked cars and gathered philandering evidence from trash bins. That’ll teach Keith never to bring home another cocktail napkin with a map of Singapore prostitution houses on it. Especially not when he’s trying to convince his girlfriend to move to Singapore.
The problem with spying is that, no matter what you find, something bad is bound to happen. For instance, when I snuck into Flav’s email and discovered he took out an adult ad in search of someone who liked “a fat cock” I immediately knew three things.
One, poor Flav had that horrible condition anorexics do when they look in the mirror and see someone huge, only his applied to his cock. Two, I’d have to change my number again. And, three, the only right thing to do in that situation is to forward the ad to every female name in the subject’s address book.
On the other side of the coin, if you don’t find anything but, say, oh, I don’t know threads for Michigan State Football fan sites — not saying any names — then you feel nothing but guilt. And concern as to how one could possibly find the time for 150 threads, but that’s neither here nor there.
The point is that, while some habits are hard to kick (I haven’t spied on a boyfriend since discovering some boyfriends don’t need to be spied on), it doesn’t mean they don’t still come in handy from time to time.
Unable to shake a few sneaking suspicions, I reverted to old behavior last week when I decided to come home on my lunch break to surprise someone. First step, skip the noisy garage and park in the driveway. Second, remove the high heels and tip toe to the back yard. Third, place hands above eyes and peek into the living room window.
Last, discover the subject laying down in her crate — not shaking or crying — stretching her neck to the ceiling and — What is this before my eyes? — watch her bark.
Yes, I spied on my dog. Yes, I saw her barking for the first time. No, I won’t be breaking up with her.
The truth is, I felt like a mother in that moment. A mother who suspected her child was autistic and then walked in on him taping a “kick me” sign to another kid and knew for the first time that he was NORMAL.
Our Penny is normal. And, if it weren’t for my awesome spying skills, we may not have known for weeks. Thank you, ex-boyfriends, for instilling me with such a fine craft. I knew you fools were good for more than just the comedy in my E! True Hollywood Story.
***I forgot to mention, as Jake noted in his comment, that we’re going to leave a tape recorder on the next time we crate Penny to MAKE SURE I didn’t hallucinate the barking and she really is, in fact, NORMAL. Ah, it reminds me of the time I left a tape recorder on in my ex’s car …