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?