It's Not My Dog

I’m descending on the bike from the top of Mt. Tamalpais north of San Francisco, and the November wind chill is to-the-bone. I break out my emergency stash of produce section plastic bags and roll them up each arm under my windbreaker for a vapor barrier. I have on my neoprene gloves and arm warmers and foot warmers and head hood with just my nose and eyes exposed. I have everything on, and still wondering why I’m the only one out here doing this in a frigid wind.
At the Depot book store in Mill Valley, I’m done with the descent and its warm and sunny with no wind. Customers are parked outside at tables in parkas with their lattes, soaking it up. Inside, I window-shop the desserts.
“Just give me that large slice of cherry pie on a napkin, no plate please”.
“To-go box?”
“Nope. It will be eaten as of, right now”.
I’m back outside. The brick pavers are warm. My pie is warm. I sit on the pavers. A dog that may be some kind of Border Shepard/Collie mix circles me. Not on a leash. Great. I’ve got irritating company. He stops with two feet between us and stares at me, then my pie. I’m ready to jump.
“Don’t even think about it”.
He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there looking at me like I am already boring him.
Fine. I keep eating. And he just watches me, then my pie. Me, the pie. Me, the pie . . . whatever. The minute I cave and give him a crumb, an owner will pounce and tell me not to feed human food to their dog off a leash.
I split off a piece of crust and hold it out in my hand. I don’t care. This is the most civilized dog I have ever met, and sure enough, he clamps down on it with the expertise of a famous brain surgeon. Nice try, but he won’t do that again now that he knows there’s butter in the crust.
Who trained this dog to have such amazing table manners? He doesn’t have any signs of dominance by an Alpha Human. I look around. No one is watching us.
“Sit.”
“Sit.”

“Lay down.”
“Sit.”

No action. Maybe he speaks French. I give him another crumb, then another. He’s so good at common courtesy, why stress him out?
Now I’m up to the second group of people passing by and checking out this delicate ritual.
“Is that your dog?”
“No.”
“You dog is so well behaved!”
“It’s not my dog.”
“Whose dog is it?”
“I don’t know.”
By the time a third guy asks me about my very civilized dog, I have been doing some thinking. What if I could behave like this in a meeting? Or waiting my turn to impress the speaker just down from the podium? Or at the checkout when they open another checkout line?
“So far he’s got all my crust. I was just thinking, why can’t I be like this? Just stand there. They all know what I want, but I’m not rushing them. I’ll out-wait them. What would I have to lose? So far this dog is scoring Big-Time.”
He laughs. “Yeah, interesting point.”

The pie is gone. I show my admiration for his character. I let him lick the napkin clean. He parts the crumbs from the paper napkin like the aforementioned brain surgeon. I fold up the napkin, he backs up, and walks off. Game over. Just like that.
I’m a little stunned. He circles the plaza two more times in hang-out mode. I get back on my bike and roll out. There he is again at the end of the plaza, no owner in sight. Stopping to water a light pole, he then trots up the street.
He’s got tags. He’s got an owner. He looks taken care of. But he’s going slow. He’s an old dog.
But, this is no ordinary dog threatened by a dog catcher just screaming to jail anything off a leash in a county very tough on vagrants. He’s a long time local with no incidences. And knows how to score. It’s obvious. They leave him alone. Who wouldn’t?
This was a great day for a ride.
Why can’t people be like that, which includes me? Next time I’m in line for something or can’t get what I want . . .