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I guess this will make good TV.
I throw my paper products in the trash can next to our bench and then thank my lucky stars that I put on comfy tennis shoes before we explored the city today. I take off at a trot with a small giggle escaping as I watch Simon swipe at the dog, who dodges his hands with ease, still gnawing on his contraband food.
A muffled, “Dammit,” makes its way back to my ears, turning my giggle into full-blown laughter as I watch serious and uptight Simon wrestle a dog, who seems to think this has turned into a game.
Simon lost his food somewhere along the way, and I don’t want mine back after the dog has chewed it up. Points for trying though.
I catch up with him, and he’s bent over, still reaching for the dog, who is jumping from side to side, tongue hanging out, playfully nipping at his hands.
“Simon,” I say between bouts of laughter. “Simon, stop. The dog already ate the food.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s the principle of the whole thing,” he says, making another reach. He almost falls over as the dog is suddenly on the other side of where Simon is.
“Do you hear yourself? A dog doesn’t know what principle is,” I say, bending at the waist and wheezing.
I glance around, seeing we’ve drawn a crowd, who is watching Simon fight with the slippery animal and me struggling to catch my breath. We have to look like a two-person circus right now.
I sit on the ground, crossing my jean-short-clad legs, and hold one hand out. I whistle softly and click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Come here, puppers,” I coo.
Simon stops to watch me. Mangy Dog gives him a side-eye before slowly stepping toward me. It turns its head this way and that as it listens to the lilting sound of my voice as I say things, trying to get it to come to me.
I watch as it puts one paw in front of the other, head down a little as it eyes me before finally stepping in front of me, and I tentatively push one hand into its matted fur.
“You poor thing. Look at your fur. You need a bath and a haircut, and you’ll be looking fine,” I say to the dog.
I scratch its head with one hand and underneath its belly with the other, and soon, its tongue is hanging out.
“I don’t see a collar,” I tell Simon as I look up at him from where I’m perched on the ground.
The dog moves in and gives me a smelly lick on my cheek, and I grin at it.
“You sweet thing. Let’s see what you are.” I peer around, trying to see through the matted fur if it’s a boy or a girl, but I can’t tell.
“That thing needs to be taken to the pound,” Simon says.
I glare up at him. “What? No. Absolutely not,” I tell him before dramatically shaking my head toward my new friend. “I won’t let that mean man take you to the P-O-U-N-D.”
“That mean man tried to get your food back for you,” Simon points out.
I look back at him. “This angel was obviously hungry and needed it more.”
“And that angel will get fed at the pound once we drop it off.”
I gasp and cover the dog’s ears. “We will do no such thing. Does anyone own this dog?” I ask, looking around at the gathered crowd.
A few people shake their heads, and some walk away, but a man steps forward.
“I don’t own it, and I don’t think anyone else does. For the last two weeks, that mongrel has been stealing food from my stall whenever my back is turned.”
“Would anyone be upset if I took the dog with me?”
“I would be grateful,” the man mutters before wiping his hands on his apron and turning around, walking back toward the market.
“Then, it’s settled,” I tell the dog, whose ears perk up.
Its tongue hangs out before it tries to lick me again. I avoid the breath that smells like death and climb to my feet. I worry for a moment about not having some sort of line to leash the dog with, but it turns out that I didn’t have to worry about it, as it sticks right by my side wherever I move.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and swipe the screen, pulling up the internet.
