"Remember what I told you," said their grandmother. "Approach slowly."
"What's his name?"
"Does he have teeth?
"Does he bite?"
"What happened to his tail?"
"What's a 'rescue dog?' Does he rescue people?"
"How old is he?"
I answered their questions and they petted Boz with gentle persistence until he could no longer endure their attention. He pulled at the leash and rolled his eyes at me, letting me know he was ready to move on.
Half a block down we were privy to another conversation between a mother and her kids. This time, we stayed out of it.
"Get outta my car!"
(Something breaks.)
"What are you doing, just sitting there, being stupid? I said get outta my car! Get out!"
(Tears.)
"Stupid. Get in the house."
(Tears.)
Life is charmed. Life is vicious. It's love and it's fear. It's accidental, serendipitous and deliberate. It's true and it's a big, fat lie. It's a million things at the same time, funny and sweet and tragic.
After dinner, Boz did everything he could to get us to sit in the living room with him so he could chew his bone. He doesn't like to chew alone. He wants company. I had things to do first: help John with the dishes, sort the laundry, upload a photo. Through it all Boz was most impatient. We finally sat down together in the living room--me with my laptop and Boz with his bone--and life was good.
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