The QB Snap: Buzz from Portland State’s Queen Bee Ryan W. Klute

I have a bad dog. If you combined a velociraptor, a puma with autism and something that loves to shit in my shoes, then you would have my pooch.

He can open doors, scale six-foot chain link fences and actually escaped from a locked house by chewing through drywall, insulation and shingles. Needless to say, my pup escapes quite often and I find myself in the awkward position of having to retrieve him. My cell-phone number is on his collar, to expedite the semi-regular returning process, and here is a tale of one of the best returns, which happened last week.

I’m in Gresham, lying to my friend that she got all the meth-cooking smell out of her newly purchased home. My phone rings, and the dude on the other end has my dog. I jump into my car (glad to get away from the fumes that were getting me a little high), and try to convince the dude on the phone to walk the four blocks from the bus stop to my house.

When I pull up home, there awaits me one very bad dog, and two somewhat drunk young men. I make all the pleasantries one is expected when his dog is returned. It goes something like this: “Oh my gosh, thank you so much for finding my dog! I can’t believe he got out, this never happens. I wonder how he did it. Thank you so much!” And then to the dog: “Bad dog, I just don’t know what to do with you.”

The trick of scolding your dog in front of strangers who just found him is to sound convincingly angry, without sounding angry enough that they think you are going to beat the living shit out of him as soon as they leave. This is a fine line, but I feel I have mastered it.

The gentlemen, upon telling me the harrowing story of my 20-pound designer dog coming up to them and licking their hands, gets right down to business. They want a ride, for missing their bus, and a cash reward. Again, not a new situation. I have probably shelled out $500 in “finder’s fees” in the last two years. So, we jump in the car, off to their apartment and an ATM.

It’s no more than five minutes into the ride, where I’m doing my best to make small talk with the two gentlemen, when dude in the back seat, drinking from a brown paper bag, asks the inevitable question:

“Nigga, you gay?” (FYI, both men were black.)

“Tewane, what the fuck? Why would you ask that question? That ain’t none of your business! I can’t believe you! I can’t take you anywhere. You don’t have to answer that. Shit, you just blew my fucking mind!” eloquently proclaims guy two, from the front seat.

They start arguing while I attempt to break in to answer. I tell them it’s an OK question and I don’t mind answering. I tell them I’m gay and I have been for as long as I can remember.

“What’s wrong with you, you don’t like to fuck bitches?” is Tewane’s follow-up question.

Again, I answer, under protest from guy number two, that I’m simply not sexually attracted to women, like I assume the two of them are not attracted to men.

“I’ll help you out, yo. I can hook you up a bitch with a mustache” offers Tewane, seemingly quite genuine.

I reflect on this offer, and normally, my response would be pretty rude. But seeing that there very well may be some serious cultural differences in my car and here’s an opportunity to educate instead of get mad, and because the offer seems so genuine, I politely decline.

Tewane starts up again, “Thats cool. I know gay people … Shit, I know a gay guy. Fuck yeah, I totally know a gay dude and he is hella gay, too. Do you know Tito?”

This is where my story is going to end, but let me assure you, no matter where I am, no matter what the situation, no matter how old I get, if I ever meet a gay man, anywhere, named Tito, I’m telling him about our mutual friends.