(cut & pasted from Lady’s FB status)
Evening rum coke warms my whimsy. Always hard to get myself out into the evening cold, it being under 30 degrees, to take Marlowe out. If it weren’t for him… would I even know that the neighborhood has the flavor of Lewisham in London… we round the corner from our own Friendly Street onto a two story cityfront avenue, Pearl Road.
I tell Marlowe that the secret to fried chicken dinner we had tonight is the buttermilk. “You’re a happy dog,” I tell him. “It’s been a good day.” My mind all the while sings “One little two little three little ‘Rena, O… the Macarena.”
I tell us, “OK, up to the Jamaican place, then we’ll turn around.” He turns to me and takes calm note with his paces. When we pass the Jamaican place I’m motivated with enough momenthood to go as far as the next block to the dog groomer for some intense sniffing of brick and snow and corner of building.
Then the church yard next to the groomer, which is riddled with poo. “You can hang around,” I tell Marlowe, “I don’t mind, but don’t drag me in.” By this time I’m willing to take Marlowe double our usual distance, the rum having fully kicked in.
“Beautiful dog,” they all say as I hold him close to me so as not to startle anyone on the sidewalk home. I wonder if he is particularly beautiful – maybe impressive because of his sheer bulk, 130 lbs.
When we get in, it’s “Bony, moany, two-time Maroni,” and I offer him the choice of either a boney-woney or a chewey-woowie. He thinks about it and takes the rawhide with a gentlemanly click. I give him the milkbone, too.
– by Lady 2.14.2021
