. . . And your little dog, too

ILLUSTRATION by BOB AUL

You, my most interesting neighbor, are a 30-something female and the dedicated owner and frequent walker of a very happy dog. I can only assume it is a dog: it appears to be equal parts Boston terrier, Chihuahua, and Steve Buscemi. Whatever he is, it is a truth universally acknowledged that we love our pets because they love us—and apparently he is completely untroubled by all of the things about you that so alarm the local real-estate agents, flier distributors, and those middle-school students who sell candy bars at odd hours. Things like, oh, for instance, your delight in conversing with the rear license plate of every car in every driveway as you make your way around and around the block. Or the strange but fetching bald patch on the back of your head. Or the muttering. One day you followed me for two whole blocks, all the while endlessly repeating, “See, I told you so” in a variety of accents and attitudes, sometimes loudly, sometimes softly. I felt as if I was attending a master class on improvisation. I also felt as if I might be living my final moments on this Earth. Our stroll ended right at my front door, and if I seemed a little frantic with my keys, please forgive me. Your dog, like a sweet little laughing Buddha, stood on my stoop and smiled up at me calmly, filling me with a desperate hope that you weren’t as agitated as you seemed. But then again, perhaps he has grown accustomed to the occasional bludgeoning of strangers. In short, dear neighbor, what I really want to know is: friend or foe?

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