A man goes for some financial consultation and receives a friendly gesture from a French Mastiff.
A few months ago, I realized I needed help getting mine and my mother’s finances organized. I learned that my auto insurance agent also specialized in helping with this stuff, so I made an appointment.
As I entered the office, a big dog—a French Mastiff—greeted me. My agent offered to lock him in a back room, but I insisted he be left alone. I like dogs and was about to find out that the fondness between me and the Mastiff was mutual.
I sat down to talk finances. My agent began explaining in detail options for investing toward my children’s education, my mother’s retirement savings as well as my own. The dog had sat down on a pillow at my feet, under the agent’s desk, and I began to pet him.
So many decisions—what state’s plan to invest my kids’ college money? What is the life expectancy of my mother and should we consolidate her funds in one place to make administration easier? Should I be investing in a Roth IRA? How the hell should I know?
I looked to the dog for an answer. I didn’t exactlly get that. Apparently, the dog liked to be petted by customers, as he had developed a huge erection. There was no mistaking it, like a long, wet pencil eraser. I hid my reaction and tried to concentrate on what the agent was asking me. I didn’t want the dog to get in trouble. “Yes, I am happy with how much I have saved so far for the kids. Yes, I think maybe we should consolidate my mom’s IRA funds. Yes, it does make sense for me to start investing in a Roth IRA.”
But then I started panicking. What if this big dog starts humping my leg? I had to go to my kids’ Christmas show straight after this, and it would be awfully embarrassing to show up to that with dog jizz on my leg. Try explaining THAT one to the wife. “Is he bothering you?”, the agent asked. “No, no, he’s fine!” I insisted. I almost told him, “I’m learning why they’re called French Ma-stiffs,” but thought it bad taste.
The barrage of financial planning questions continued. “No, I haven’t thought about long-term care. No, I don’t know if I have power of attorney. Yes, my company does match my 401K.”
“Stop petting the dog, you idiot,”I told myself. And that worked. Everything subsided, including the pencil eraser.
“Well, that wasn’t too hard, was it?” asked the agent. I looked at her like a deer in headlights. “Oh, no—no!” Relax; ignore the pun; don’t laugh. “Thanks for your help. I’ll get back to you!” I gathered up all the papers into a folder and left the office, just as another customer came in. “Oh, what a nice dog!” he said.
Good luck, buddy.
Photos from Wikipedia Commons