I once had a girlfriend with one of those little Paris Hilton dogs.

To say that she would let it kiss her in the mouth is a gross understatement. It was more like she used to let it mine her mouth with its tongue, searching for DNA scrapings and residual food matter.

I wouldn't kiss her afterward. The dog, I mean.

It even turned into a party trick. I would stand there, mortified, as people dived off balconies and clawed their eyes while this little 5-pound Chihuahua anteatered my girlfriend's mouth like it was working Cheez Whiz out of a Kong.

That is the main thing I remember about her. Not the good times or shared secrets, just that dog trick. She was a crazy artist chick, too. I'm talking paint-in-the-nude and steal-crap-from-restaurants crazy.

We broke up after seven or eight months, but I've kept a smoldering thing for her, probably because of her insanity. It is those we least understand that attract us.

Last week, I am in the parking lot of a grocery store when I spotted my long-lost party-trick girlfriend.

"What are you up to?" I say to this disheveled woman.

"Going in here to get some wine," she says. "Do you have any wine in your car?"

Confused by her question, I say, "How long has it been? Ten years?"

"He is mad at me."

I notice the small human standing next to her with chocolate smeared across his face and wearing what appears to be a homemade Viking helmet.

"He wants a bag of Fritos, but Mommy says no."

"Hey, whatever happened to that little dog that you used to let kiss you in the mouth?" I ask her.

"What dog?"

"The Chihuahua."

"I never let him kiss me in the mouth!"

"You don't remember that?" I say with disbelief.

Amazing. Why is it that we remember our lives so differently than those around us? What novel thing did she remember about me that has defined me ever since?

"Did we ever actually go out?" she says.

"Yes!" I say.

I sit out on the curb in front of the grocery store, defeated and babysitting the kid while she goes inside to meet some older man she referred to as "the Russian."

"You are trying to make me into a centaur, aren't you?" says the boy.

"I don't know. I guess."

"Balloons can float to God."

"Cool."

"Why are your eyes uneven?"

Ten minutes later, she comes out of the store.

"Good to see you, Gordon. We have to go."

"OK. Hey, are you on Facebook?"

"No. Hillcrest."

And she left me again, still as crazy as ever, and probably still making people remember her.

Hear Gordon on "The Ticket" KTCK-AM (1310) weekdays from 5:30 to 10 a.m. E-mail him at gordon@gordonkeith.com.

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