Almost every day, I take our 13-year old dog, Wilson, on a 20-minute walk “to town.” The route we take to get there and back depends on our mood and how adventurous we feel during our limited time slot.
This day, we cut through The Purity parking lot and head southeast when I see a man limping towards us. He looks like he’s struggling to hold onto the last bit of what God gave him.
He is of fair complexion and has thinning, strawberry-blonde hair. The red flakiness of his face indicates non-use of sun screen. His furrowed brow deepens as he stops a few feet away.
He shapes his right thumb and forefinger into an L or a mock gun and points it at Wilson. “I’m thinking wolfhound,” he says, and taps the L to his temple to confirm that such a thought is indeed in his brain.
I smile. “Really?”
“Yes. That’s what he’s called, right? A wolfhound?” His tone is adamant, his chest puffs with pride. The L is given a rat-a-tat at Wilson.
“More like a lab,” I gently suggest.
As he shakes his head, the effort appears to make him dizzy and he shuffles his feet to regain balance. “No, I wouldn’t say lab. Definitely not lab.”
Okay, Wilson is a wolfhound. We move on.