���Spontaneity is a meticulously prepared art.���

Oscar Wilde said that and I agree. As a guy who has lit out on a days-long motorcycle trip because I couldn���t sleep, jumped on a moving train to see where it was going, moved to a new city without ever having seen it, and done all sorts of crazy things for love, I know a thing or two about spontaneity.

As a reader of this blog, you know the destination of my motorcycle trips are always unplanned and while that sometimes lands me in some very unpleasant circumstances, most of the time, it leads me on adventures far more wonderful and interesting than anything I could have designed.

So, for the past week, I have been laying the ground work for my impulsive nature. After spending the winter in hibernation, my motorcycle is now shined up, tuned up, inspected, insured, and ready to roll. I turned in all of my reward points from credit cards and hotels for gift cards that will go a long way in feeding and sheltering me on the road. I���ve filled the tank, pulled the leather out of storage, and packed the saddle bags for when spring is serious about staying around, and I am unable to resist heading out for wherever the road leads.

Speaking of adventure, there���s been plenty since I last wrote here five months ago. After publishing my 3rd novel, A Noble Story, I said goodbye to DC. I had five productive years there, worked for some ground-breaking companies, and met some good people I will never forget. I put everything I owned in storage, hopped on my motorcycle, said my goodbyes, and took off. I wound my way through five states of country roads and blogged about some of that journey in my last two entries here. By the time the snow was flying and it was way too cold to keep riding, I���d made my way back to the small town in western Pennsylvania where I was born and raised.

After enjoying the holidays with my family, I decided to stay for a while, rented a little apartment that I have turned into a decent writer���s cave, and got a gig writing a column���Tales of a Wayward Son���for a local newspaper.

From time to time, I will include a column here on Drayer���s Notebook. To kick things off, I will start with one���written tongue firmly in cheek���about the challenges of dating in 2015.

That���s it for now. If you want to say hello, you can reach me via my website: Daviddrayer.com.

Enjoy!

The following was first published in The Leader-Vindicator out of New Bethlehem, PA on March 19, 2015.

Tales of a Wayward Son

Love Bites

Romance is going to the dogs. Literally.

I like dogs and they tend to like me too, but they are at the center of a disturbing trend that is seriously cramping my style. Every woman I have gone out with during the past few years has had a big dog in her life that made dating very difficult. I could tell you dozens of stories, but in the interest of time, I will only tell you the most recent one. Krissy (not her real name) and I met at the party of a mutual friend. She was intelligent, beautiful, and we had a lot of the same interests. I asked her out and things were going great until I met the other important guy in her life, Booger. Right off, I didn���t like his name, but that wasn���t his fault. He was a huge, hairy mutt who loved everyone���except other dogs who he tried to kill���and he absolutely adored Krissy, who absolutely adored him right back.

We lasted three months.

Our final day together was a sunny Saturday this past October. We���d planned a walk around the city and I���d arrived at her place with a bouquet of sunflowers. I anticipated us strolling around Old Town, hand in hand, talking and laughing easily, stopping at a little caf��, browsing novelty shops, going wherever the day took us.

However, I���d foolishly forgotten about Booger.

While Krissy put the flowers in a vase, I loaded the fireplace with wood for later that evening. I joined her in the kitchen and was about to kiss her when she yelled, ���Booger! Wanna go walkie? Booger wanna walkie?���

There was a thundering sound from the far end of the house as the ninety pound dog raced through the living room and down the hall. He burst into the kitchen, skidded across the tile floor, and slammed into the table. The vase of sunflowers crashed to the floor.

Krissy is a well-educated woman with an impressive vocabulary that went out the window when Booger was around. ���Bad Boogie! Bad, bad!���

The dog whimpered, ashamed, but still it did not dampen his enthusiasm. He was overjoyed, wide-eyed, shaking with excitement. Krissy forgot about the flowers and asked, ���You wanna go?���

Oh, did he ever! He began howling and spinning in circles. ���Go get your leash!��� she laughed, matching his excitement, shaking her head and hands wildly, making funny faces. ���Go on! Go get it! Go!���

He exploded out of the kitchen, rumbling through the house as we knelt to clean up the mess. She looked at me, narrowed her eyes, and said, ���What���s the matter?���

���Nothing. I was picturing,��� I stammered, ���a romantic walk���you know���just the two of us.���

Booger tore back into the kitchen, sliding across the floor again, panting and drooling, the leash clutched tightly in his mouth. With his tail going uncontrollably, he looked at us as if we were the most wonderful human beings on the planet and he was the luckiest dog ever.

Still on our knees, we were eye level with Booger and Krissy said to him in a deeply disappointed voice, ���Boogie stay home. No walkie.��� The dog���s eyebrows twitched up and down like he didn���t understand and the manic wagging of his tail began to slow. ���No walkie. No!���

A whine escaped the dog and the leash fell from his mouth with a heartbreaking clatter.

I couldn���t take it. ���No,��� I said. ���He can go. Of course, he can go.���

She glared at me. ���You say that now, but you���ll act all weird on the walk.���

���No,��� I said, ���I promise. He can go. I want him to go. Really.���

She turned to Booger then and whispered, ���You wanna go?���

The romantic walk I���d envisioned was doomed. With Booger tangling his leash around everything imaginable and continually jerking Krissy forward, it was impossible for us to carry on a conversation or even hold hands. The caf�� and novelty shops were out too because Booger suffered from separation anxiety and couldn���t be left alone outside. The beginning of the end came when she was cleaning up after him and he took the opportunity to break free and attack another big dog being walked by another pretty woman.

Krissy screamed, handed me the baggie she���d just filled, and ran after her beloved dog. She and the other woman managed to get the dogs separated, after which they exchanged unpleasantries, each blaming the other���s dog for the scuffle. When Krissy stormed back, she said I was acting weird like she knew I would. I denied this and we got into an argument right there. She informed me that she and Booger were going home alone and my invitation to spend the evening was revoked.

Watching them walk away while I stood there holding a bag of doggie waste, I imagined them cuddled up in front of the fire I���d prepared and knew I couldn���t compete with Booger. His schedule was completely in sync with hers. They never quarreled. He was ecstatic every time she walked through the door, was never grumpy, and he was trainable. Sure, he���d misbehave from time to time, but he���d be very ashamed of it, and his transgressions would never involve stealing a glance at another woman or staying out too late with the guys.

And doggone it, I couldn���t even be angry at him.