First of all, the dog you see here isn’t the dog I’m writing about. It’s Bailey, our family dog, when he was a pup. I needed a cute pooch to get your attention.
The dog I’m writing about was a skinny mutt who lived in Greenwich Village, at Bleecker Street and Seventh Avenue. Literally at Bleecker and Seventh, in the alcove entrance of a restaurant under renovation. His master was a homeless guy, and as the Christmas season approached they made do in that alcove.
At least they were sheltered from the wind, but it was cold, and when you saw them swaddled in layers of ratty old blankets you had to wonder how they were getting by.
A dog-lover named Ashton lived around the corner, and she did more than wonder, especially about the dog. So one day, she bought a sack of dog food on her way home from work.
She ventured into the alcove, sack in hand. The dog wagged his tail upon her approach, but the guy just looked at her.
“Here,” Ashton said. “I’ve got some food for your dog.”
The guy sat up straight, but made no move to reach for the bag. Was he deranged? He didn’t look deranged. Could he speak? Yes, he could.
He cleared his throat and asked, “Is it organic?”
It wasn’t. Just a run-of-the mill sack of dog food. The guy politely declined the offer, proving the old adage isn’t always right. Beggars can be choosers.
Anyway, the man and his dog moved on when the restaurant opened, possibly because the menu didn’t offer organic dishes.
www.carilloauthor.com