Serge the dog leans up against Katie and lifts his old, shaggy, gray head to smile at me, all the while slowly wagging his tail. In the fashion of people you meet walking dogs on the streets of Brooklyn, we know the dog's name, but not his owner's.
"And when you can't get out that much it's really just boring," Serge's owner says, speaking of her hip problems, and I can't help but think of when I'm going to be laid up after my surgery. "I read, I watch TV, I do some laundry, and I can't even walk Serge!"
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