A funny thing happened walking our dog this morning. Funny, hah, no. But it was sort of a good metaphor for what’s been going on in my life—that is, as good as dog-walking/life metaphors can get.
Walking said dog, whose name is Cecil in the aforementioned park. There is a small pond and a little swampy Brier patch behind it, with numerous geographical barriers and few people. Though against park rules, I do let the dog loose here because it hurts no one and he herds the foul fecal-machines known as Park Geese back into the stagnant pond and out of the human-use grass. Coming out of the area, I was slow to put the leash back on and happened upon a middle-aged woman walking with a Pekinese hefted high against her armpit:
Pekinese Woman: You have to use a leash here. Because of people like you, I can’t let my dog onto the path.
Me: I know (thinking fast. I don’t like to be admonished in public). I have a lot of control over my dog.
Pekinese Woman: Yeah (inappropriate and overly familiar sarcasm), sure. He’s a pitbull.
Me: (white lie) He’s not a pitbull. (he’s actually half, or so they say. I take the fifth).
Pekinese Woman: He looks like a pitbull.
Me: Appearances can be deceiving.
Pekinese Woman: (walking away, shouting back, absolutely serious) You don’t have to tell me. I’m a psychic.