I spot him halfway down the block: a full-sized, rough-coat, brindle dachshund coming down the steps and out the little iron gate of one of Park Slopes innumerable brownstones.
So I do what you do when confronted by beauty and grace, that is, my face erupts with a goofy smile, and I make direct eye contact with him. His scruffy little beard lifts in a dignified acknowledgement of my tribute and I think we’re basically done here.
But his owner, seeing my delight, somehow thinks it’s appropriate to insert himself into our interaction with what seems to me as a slightly can-I-help-you “Hi,” but I choose to ignore his tone, give him a friendly, “Hello, great dog,” and keep it moving.
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