Walking back from the library yesterday afternoon, while Lila is stopping to sniff her seventy-six dandelion of the day, a pudgy man in a business suit turns to comment “powerful animal you’ve got there.”  I don’t like the way he said it, but I nod and smile, giving him the benefit of the doubt that he did not mean for his comment to come across the way I perceived it; that he doesn’t think that I’m a silly little broad who surely doesn’t know her own dog as well as he does.  She is a powerful animal, after all.

But then I cross the street and he turns, adjusting his fast food bag from one hand to the other.  ”Don’t come after me with that beast,” he says.  ”She’s no beast,”  I say, feeling Momma Tiger coming on strong.  ”She’s a wonderful dog.  They all are when they’re raised properly.”  I’m behaving myself.  I will go the route of politely informative.   “Oh, so it’s all about how they’re raised is it?” he snarls sarcastically, taking a puff of his cigarette and blowing it our direction.  ”Absolutely,” I say with another polite, albeit artificial smile, “just like with people.”  He waves his fat middle finger aggressively in my face and I pass him, Lila walking obediently at my side.

Let’s reassess here, who’s the beast?