By Nate Thayer
Lamont Diaries continued
Lamont is a Cheap Date
My new pal, Lamont, is a cheap date. And a bit of a shameless hussy. Sometimes it is a bit alarming, but he seems to think that is my problem.
He was gracing the neighborhood with his presence today, strolling, sniffing, wagging and peeing, interrupted every few minutes to insist on greeting warmly all manner of passing strangers for idle chit chat.
These people now comprise a growing body of what can be best described as Lamont’s cult followers. Or Loyal Subjects. Or Reserve Harem. Or maybe they just like him. I am a bit confused. It isn’t normal.
At one point we encountered a cardboard box on the sidewalk with a taped note attached: “Free.” Lamont thrust his snout indelicately into the contents, sifting through the utensils, knick-knacks, and out of date computer attachments, and surfaced holding his selection: A brown and yellow striped stuffed tiger.
Clenched in his teeth, he then sat and looked up at me with those irresistible watery, droopy eyes and asked me: “Can I keep it, pal?”
“Sure you can, Lamont” I said. “It’s free.”
Lamont lit up, rose to his full height of ten inches, ears perked at attention, nose held at an angle skywards, and started to prance and trot down the street showing it off as if it was the Hope Diamond.
A few meters ahead Lamont spotted an attractive young woman taking in the early evening breeze on the front stoop of her house. He froze. Then whimpered. Then wiggled. Then tugged, insisting I get with the program, and headed her way.
He stopped momentarily at the stairs leading up to her.
“Hi sweetie! What’s your name?” she flirted.
And Lamont bounded up the steps into her open, welcoming arms. They smooched for a second. Then Lamont placed the Hope Diamond on her porch and focused on her sundress, under which he showed a singular interest. She giggled, faux objected, and they exchanged more smooches.
I, meanwhile, stood mute on the sidewalk holding a clear plastic bag of Lamont’s poop. I think she smiled at me. It isn’t entirely clear it wasn’t a gesture of pity.
Lamont then bid a wiggly farewell and we continued, greeting a few more of his growing band of devotees as we sauntered, pranced, and trotted on home, his stuffed tiger held prominently aloft.
Lamont gave me a sympathetic look at our front door and said: “Don’t worry pal. You will get the hang of it. Just stick with me.”
That sounds like a plan.