I took my dogs for a walk. It was sunny. High 80s. The blossoming trees made Crestwood smell like heaven.
The first person I met was an old man, sitting in his yard. He was beneath a massive oak. He ate from a hospital tray, sipped tea from a straw. He wore a Gilligan hat. His nurse was seated with him.
I was walking past his house and he spoke to me because everyone talks to you when you have dogs. It is a universal truth, unrefuted by science.
At the time I had three dogs on a leash. A blind coonhound (55 pounds), an alleged Labrador (110 pounds), and a bloodhound (60,000 metric tons). My ligaments were being torn asunder.
I waved hello. The old man waved back. His nurse waved. I asked how he was feeling today.
“Don’t ever make the mistake of being 88,” he said.
Then he laughed. “Actually, it’s not so bad,” he added. “If you don’t mind having a titanium hip, bolts in your knees, or being violated
with catheters the size of commercial garden hoses.”
I walked onward.
Next, I met three young men who were playing catch in their front yard. And by “young men” I mean these men were still in diapers. They were maybe 2 years old.
Their mothers were outside with them. The boys were tossing a Wiffle ball back and forth. Although, technically, it wasn’t a proper game of “catch” inasmuch as nobody ever caught the ball.
I waved at them. They all waved back.
“Pet da puppy?!” one boy shouted to me.
I let the kids run their hands along the smooth coat of my blind coonhound. They enjoyed this. But not half as much as me.
After that, I met two older guys, loading a canoe atop their Honda. They had tackle boxes strewn in their driveway. Clearly a fishing trip was on the horizon.