Katie takes a break from all the fetching and tries to look away from the site of the chubby man in his underwear just out of frame.

When we first moved to California, we lived in a 500 square feet studio apartment on the third floor of a sketchy apartment building. Taking our dog outside required walking her on a leash down a long hallway, three flights of stairs, across a parking lot and through a rusted gate to a few patches of grass on the side of our busy street.

We lived in a few other apartments over the years and, while they were nicer and larger than the original studio, it was still the same situation when we wanted to let the dog out. Get dressed, get a leash, and start walking.

When we eventually bought a house years later, we were thrilled to have a backyard surrounded by a seven feet high stone wall, shrubs, and multiple trees. Now whenever our dog had to go out, we simply opened a door and let her roam. We didn’t have to find a leash, we didn’t have to take the stairs, and the best part (for me, at least) was that we didn’t even have to be dressed.

In the mornings, I sipped coffee in boxer-briefs and watched her explore the new grounds.

In the afternoons, I wore only my boxers as we played “fetch.”

In the evenings I was exhausted from work so I took naps on the hammock in a pair of tighty-whiteys.

My wife tried to reason with me about this, but I refused to listen.

“Sure it feels like we have a lot of privacy, but do you really need to strip down to your underwear every time you go outside?”

“Could you hold my pants? I have to make a phone call and the reception’s terrible inside.”

“Are those my panties?”

“‘Manties’. When they’re on me, they’re called ‘manties.’”

It didn’t matter what was going on in the world, when I was in my own back yard (and wearing nothing more than my underwear), I was invincible…until one tragic Saturday morning.

(cue sad/tension music)

It had been over two months since my last trip to the gym and twenty-six hours since my briefs were clean and maintaining any legitimate coverage. The dog had already come and gone back inside as I stood there admiring the grass, the mulch, and a row of neglected plants left by the previous owners. Then I heard a child whisper, “…but I don’t see a dog. I just see…a man.”

I glimpsed the neighbor’s children scurrying down from “the lookout branch” in one of the trees behind our house. I would’ve shouted at them but I was so humiliated and disappointed that our privacy bubble had been burst, I just went back inside.

(cue sad/possible funeral music)

The next morning was a sad one. It was cold, it was overcast, the row of neglected plants hadn’t magically disappeared overnight. Saddest of all, though, was that when I stepped outside again…I was in jeans…and sneakers…and a sweatshirt.

I suspected the kids would be peering over the wall again and I was ready for them, but…what if they weren’t there? I knew it seemed crazy, but what if I’d just imagined them all along? Maybe I overheard someone else in another house. Maybe there isn’t even such a thing as “the lookout branch.” If that were the case then the bubble never burst and I could take off my pants in my own yard again!

I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my sweatshirt, but as I reached for my belt I heard the most horrible sound imaginable…the voice of a child.

“Hey Old Man.” said the voice.

I looked toward the shrub, defeated. “What, kid?”

“Where are your manties?”