This year, an estimated 43,550 women will die from breast cancer in the U.S.
“As I sit on my porch in the evening, I enjoy watching the neighborhood dogs escort their owners down the sidewalk.”
I chuckled after reading those lines, written by Linda Kennett for her column in this publication. Her September 16th What’s in the Attic explored “Man’s Best Friend,” and the history and value of canine collectibles. But her opening commentary about the neighborhood dogs leading their owners down the street resonated with me, for I sit on my porch and watch a parade of dogs and their people.
My youngest granddaughter is a lover of dogs, and when we lived together and walked together, she would say to the owners of the dogs we encountered, “Can I pet your doggie?” Myah’s mother and I have taught her the safest way to approach dogs and she (mostly) adheres to the rules. In my new Irvington digs, far more dogs pass my porch, and when my granddaughter comes to visit, she is rewarded with a steady flow of pets that she wants to pet. Linda Kennett noted terriers, greyhounds, poodles, and bulldogs, and I see all of those, but there are also some other interesting dogs for Myah to pet.
I don’t know dog breeds, so I ask the people who agree to let Myah interact with their dogs, the names of the breed. One couple stopped to let Myah pet their Cavalier King Charles Spaniel; “Charlie” was patient with the little girl. I’ve seen a very friendly Australian Shepherd (with spooky light eyes), and a huge white Labradoodle leading a woman in white; a Siberian Husky and a black Labrador were towing a man, and one couple followed a dog while pushing another in a stroller. One day while weeding in the front of my house, I heard a woman’s voice say, “She wants your attention, I think.” I turned to find a tiny brown dachshund skittering away from me. I’ve since seen Audrey leading her leash-handler up and down the street. When I took Myah on a “walkabout” that did not include a foray into “Berger Park,” we met an affectionate and fluffy German Shepherd named “Kaiser.” Sitting on my front porch, I smile when two dogs lead their couple down the street; each dog has its own poop-bags attached to the harness. Another woman passes with a beautiful blonde Golden Retriever.
One recent evening on my way to the pool tables I saw a young woman with a giant dog walking beside her. I asked the woman if the dog’s name was “Harley,” for it was a Harlequin Great Dane, and the last time I saw one was in an elevator when I lived in St. Louis, Missouri. My two youngest children were with me at the time, and they grew to love Harley and his owner. The woman told me that her dog was named “Zero.” I greeted the dog by name and said, “Zero is my hero.” The woman chuckled and they walked on.
I’ve had few dogs in my life. There was “Duffy,” the Irish Setter, and “Sniffles” the adopted Long-Haired Dachshund, and “Allie,” the sweet and patient yellow Lab, who let my two youngest love her however they might. My eldest has a white pit bull named “Ghost” whom she adores, and Lisa has encouraged me to seek the companionship of a dog, too. My footloose and fancy-free lifestyle is not conducive to that sort of dependent relationship, but I do have the dogs of Irvington.
cjon3acd@att.net