I'd agreed to host a table at the company's awards banquet the evening after I did the opening keynote. With a noisy ballroom and eight people at each table, conversation could be difficult. But the woman on my right started talking at me even before "Good evening" made it all the way out of my mouth. And she never stopped. Never. I kept expecting her to pause for breath, so I could at least acknowledge the person on my left. But no pause ever came. Maybe she was breathing through her ears.

Her subject matter was haphazard, yet full of random, microscopic detail. And continually returning to the multi-part saga of Mr. Cuddly-Face, her miniature poodle. Reputedly, Mr. Cuddly-Face was "just the funniest guy." No doubt his stand-up routine killed them at the kennel. But to me, his adventures all sounded like standard day-in-the-doggy-life stuff: eat, go for a walk, poop, sniff a few trees, scratch, bark at a squirrel, sleep, repeat. I did get that he was having issues with the poop part. But if you've ever been there, that's no laughing matter.

Mr. Cuddly-Face was also having trouble in the bedroom. Or maybe it was in the litter box, I'm not sure where his amorous attempt on the neighbor's cat occurred. Cuddly-Face almost lost an eye. Though it was reported, he maintained his sense of humor. (Film rights remain available.)

Unfortunately, no alcohol was served at dinner. And not that I was considering suicide — or murder — but I did notice the knives weren't that sharp either. A month or so later, when the awards and the dinner were over, I dragged myself up to my hotel room. Where — catastrophically — there was no minibar. There's virtually always a mini bar in these places, automatically generating false charges. ("No, I did not eat that $60 candy bar. How can a candy bar possibly cost $60?") But now, when I actually needed one — now, when I was willing to mortgage my house for a good stiff overpriced drink — ZIP! ZERO! NADA!

Mercifully, the bar in the lobby was still open. I rushed to the elevator and punched the down button repeatedly. I've always wondered why people in a hurry hit the elevator buttons multiple times, as if that would somehow speed things up. Now, I figured, why not? It can't hurt. The elevator arrived. The doors opened. And who was standing there but the Bard of Cuddly-Face herself. "Oh, hello," she cried, stepping off and refocusing her flow of words in my direction.

I tossed her a quick, probably pained, smile, leaped onto the elevator, and just as the doors were closing, I heard her say to someone — or maybe no one — it probably wouldn't have mattered, "You know I had dinner with him tonight. He's just the most fascinating conversationalist."

My entire contribution to the conversation consisted of two words, "Good evening." But you can be sure they were delivered in a fascinating manner. I am, after all, a professional speaker.

Listening. We all know that listening can put us in danger of actually learning something. I, for example I never guessed that miniature poodles — or indeed anything — could possibly be so dull. What isn't as widely understood about listening is that it also makes the listener more interesting. As much as we all love to talk, nothing we ever say — or write, for example, this — is likely to be considered nearly as captivating as simply listening.

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Photo credit: Ibrahim Boran at Unsplash