Ironicschmoozer’s Weblog


Sunday Stroll–boulevards, cafes, dog encounters

Late yesterday afternoon I walked the boulevards around 24th and G Streets, staying in the shade of the big old trees and the many big houses. It had been up to 90 or more but it felt fine as the evening’s Delta breeze made its soft, first arrival.

I was looking at or walking by apartments for rent. I need a bigger one for the furniture I need to bring here from San Jose. I’d like one that cools down faster at night, my current one heats up and stays hot awhile after I put fans in the windows to draw in the cool air (it gets as low as 50 by morning, so it feels wasteful to use the living room AC to cool the place down at night.

I passed a peach-stucco house with nice shrubs and a big lemon tree in the short front yard. There was the iconic Obama campaign sticker in the window, along with hand written notes taped to the walls: “Please pick up after your dog” and “Help yourselves to lemons. We can’t keep up!”
I took one and took down their address. My fantasy is to move into the neighborhood and then knock on their door and introduce myself as their new neighbor. “I live three blocks over and I moved there just to be near your house, so I hope we can be friends!” I am sure they will invite me in for pie, or even supper, but if they don’t I may have to get a great Dane.

It took me awhile to find where I had parked my car, then I drove to Old Soul Bakery/Weatherstone’s Coffee. I wanted to sit on the tree-covered brick patio but needed to be inside near an outlet for my laptop. I glared at a guy sitting at a table by the windows and one of the few outlets. I’m sure he was about to leave anyway.

I had a $2 iced tea of some precious herbal blend. After an hour I had to step out to the sidewalk to take a phone call. While talking I approached a sweet black Labrador tied to the patio fence and pining for me with bright eyes and a mouth that could smile as much as possible with a muzzle strap on its snout. Her ears were velvety and she loved the taste of my hand.

Two people walked toward us with two little long-haired yippy dogs on leash. I said, “Now just ignore them, okay?” I tried to keep eye contact with her but she wouldn’t take her eyes off them; she had a new reason for living. To the owners I said, “This isn’t my dog; I don’t know what she’ll do, you might want to steer clear.” They seemed to ignore me and three dogs began a barking and lunging melee. I said, “It’s not my dog. It’s not my dog,” as one of the owners apologized, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” (Since it wasn’t my dog, I thought later, I should have shouted, “Get ’em, get ’em!”)

The yippy and sorry family went on by us. My new friend, panting cheerfully, returned her attention to me, and I returned to my cell phone conversation, easing toward her for some more love, hoping she wouldn’t decide to settle on me as the handiest thing to bite.

Soon the owner came out and led her from the fence over to a table on the sidewalk and had her sit down, splitting us up forever. I said, “That’s a very sweet dog.” He said, “Yes, too sweet.”

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