Wilson and I are on the homestretch of our 20-minute walk when we encounter a man on Alder Street where the sidewalk meets the alley that runs behind The Purity. He’s stout and bearded, wearing a stained white tee-shirt and jeans, and carrying a plastic grocery bag in his right hand. A boxed frozen pizza is held like a shield in his left hand. He smells of distilled alcohol.
I smile. “No, thank you.” Wilson and I begin to move past him.
“IT’LL BE PIPING HOT IN 40 MINUTES.”
“Thank you so much, but I’m not hungry.”
“Well . . . all right.”
“Have a good day.”
Wilson is 14 years old and certainly beyond the prime of being described as beautiful. We’ve always referred to our lab/border collie mix as “funny looking.” But it makes me proud that someone considers my ancient dog beautiful.
“Thank you,” I say.
“SURE YOU DON’T WANT SOME PIZZA?”
Is this a hit on my female person? Is he only complimenting by dog’s beauty in order to sweeten the pizza invitation?
I’m not a fan of pizza.
Wilson and I head home.