OF A GOLDEN AGE

This morning the most beautiful dog was on my street with his owner.  As I walked up he sat his wide dog butt on the sidewalk and wouldn’t move until I approached, and I stooped (further than usual to the ground, thanks to high heels) to say hello.  He was unthinkably soft, with fur like immaculate, fluid goosedown.

“He’s beautiful,” I told his owner.

“Oh, just wait,” she said.  Her English leaned Polish.  “He’s still a puppy.”

As I stood to leave he nuzzled my ankle, and he watched longingly as I closed my car door.  I waved goodbye out the open window.  The owner attempted to drag him away.

“He’s in love,” she said.

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