When Irish Eyes Aren’t Smiling

 I’m in the Park walking home. It’s pretty cold.

 There’s a tall, burly man with a Kennedyesque set of teeth who clearly doesn’t feel it. He’s in a light army green parka over jeans without a hat or gloves. Unless my eyes deceive me, he’s wearing no socks with loafers that could use new heels.

 He’s dragging along a black Pug, shaking all over.

 I say to him, looking at the dog, “I know how he feels, I’m cold too. Doesn’t he have a sweater?”

 “It’s a she,” he snaps, like I’ve insulted his mother.

 His face has that reddish, I’ve had one too many whiskies look which tells me he’s a devout drinker which could also explain his indifference to the cold.

  I try to soften the encounter by asking, is the pug his?

 “Whose do you think it is? Would I be out walkin’ her otherwise?”

  I hear a little voice say…run Susannah, run, but no, I’m determined to break the ice in his glass, as it were.

 “Must be nice having a pal. I’ve often thought of getting a dog.”

  He lights a cigarette with one hand thrusting his right hip out as if he were Andrew Jackson. “So get one.”

 What is it with men with overflowing testosterone? He’s 50, 60? Who knows with that chubby, crimson face.

 The Pug looks at me as if to say, yeah I know he’s a schmuck. 

 Before accepting defeat I bat one more time for the animal.

 “Sir, can’t you see how cold your little dog is?”

 Expecting sass, he then did the unexpected. He picked her up and slid her inside his jacket so all you saw was her little black head peeking out.

 He looked at her, then at me and said, “Are ya happy now?”

 All I could do was smile. It’s those damned Kennedy teeth. They get me every time.   

SB