The other day while taking the dog for a walk, a woman stood beside us as we waited to cross Spadina. She held a pink flyer in her hands and she kept looking at it, smiling. It advertized a variety of deals for spa treatments. Slightly mesmerized, she kept staring as if it was a document she couldn’t believe. When she spotted Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund, she wasn’t sure where to smile, uncertain of just what idea (dog or spa) gave her more pleasure.
In the Shopper’s Drug Mart a nearly elderly woman with a walker clunked slowly along in front of me. Very cheerfully and talking to nobody, she chattered to herself, “Oh, look at all the rubbish that’s on sale, rubbish, rubbish, rubbish!”
The line-up was customarily long and so the cashier called the cavalry. A woman, brusque in every conceivable manner, came and staffed one of the registers, announcing that the next person waiting in line should migrate over. But instead, the last person waiting in line darted over and seized the opportunity. He had all manner of sinus medication in his arms and looked sullen and sour, like somebody who just lost at the dog track. I gave him an “I Know What You Did” look, to which he responded by trying to look sicker.
Back on the street we passed the man who always calls our dog Fritz. He’s tall this man, crooked, with floppy white hair and a cane. He looks like a British genius given to saying thing that are just a moment beyond one’s grasp and as he leaned against the Tim Horton’s he tipped his cap, “Herr Fritz, a good day to you!”
A little further along was an obese man plugged into a pair of earphones. He moved slowly and erratically, as if movement was difficult and he really wasn’t very interested in what direction he was headed. When the dog and I passed him he snarled, “Get your fucking dog out of here!” “You really must miss something,” I said in response, but he did not hear me and continued in anger.
Immediately after, as if in response, we bumped into a woman who wanted to tell me about her Dachshund, Brandy. Lived to be 18. She said that they had a Cocker Spaniel, too, but Brandy, Oh, and then she put her hands to her heart and smiled, smiled, smiled.
We then passed a dog walker. Energized by something she spoke excitedly into her headset. She had thin legs and moved like a boy, like somebody who always wanted to be the quarterback during pick-up football games. She yanked at the dogs, “Come on Huckleberry, hurry up Rizzo, we’re not stopping here!” And then a woman just leaving a nursery jumped from the fifth step down onto the walkway, and as she did so she kicked out her legs like she was in a gum commercial. I could not let this unguarded moment pass, so I said, “Very athletic!” The woman kept her head down and did not respond, heading swiftly down the street to whatever joy beckoned.