You've been watching the dog walk around in your back yard for a half an hour now. Who the hell's dog is that? He's digging up your rose bushes and he's peed on the side of the house like six times already. You decide maybe you should go outside and look at his collar.

You're four feet from him before you realize he's not wearing a collar. You're two feet from him before you realize he's not really a dog. You're right next to him before you realize it's the neighbor kid who's digging up your rose bushes and peeing on your house. In your defense, you've never seen the neighbor kid naked before, so how were you supposed to know? You search for his name. Chet? Chalmers? Chooey? No, Chuck. It's definitely Chuck.

"Chuck, why are you digging up my rose bushes and peeing on my house? And where are your clothes?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Chooey answers.

Is he flirting with you? That sounded like he was flirting. "Careful, Chuck," you think to yourself. "I've been hurt before."

You're about to invite Chooey in for a drink when you remember that he's 18 and you're a 65 year old widower. Your wife has been dead for sixteen years and the last thing you need is allegations of letchery and homosexuality following you around the Shriner's club. Not with elections being next month and all. Go back inside and smoke some herb, old man. Love is a young man's game.


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