I tend to operate on a fairly routine schedule during the work week. I leave my apartment around the same time each morning. At least twice a week, I come across the same amusing sight on my walk to the PATH.
There is a man in the neighborhood who must be a professional dog-walker. That, or he has the largest apartment in town. Each time I see him, he is holding tight to half an Iditarod team’s worth of huskies. Big, gorgeous, silver and white, proud, healthy huskies. Ears perked up, backs straight, tails held aloft in that trademark comma shape. These dogs know what they look like. They own the sidewalk. They know you’re looking at them, but they don’t give you the satisfaction of acknowledging it. They’re just throwing their near-lupine perfection out for the world to see.
Also tied up in the man’s tangle of leashes each and every time I see him is a basset hound, AKA the world’s saddest looking dog. I don’t mean “sad” as in “aww, how cute” sad. I mean “sad” as in “oh, that’s a shame” sad. This dog just looks like the pits. He’s short. He’s heavy. Everything’s drooping. His eyes are bloodshot. There’s a bit of drool sometimes hanging off his bottom lip. The poor thing even has kankles. And here he is, forced to take his morning constitutional with the triathletes of the canine world. This would be like throwing that face transplant lady into the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. It just doesn’t seem fair.
The point is that whenever I see the dog-walker with his pack, I save my smile for the basset hound. Occasionally, he (or she, begging your pardon) glances up at me from the fatty folds of his/her brow. I have no idea if I’m making this dog’s day a little easier, but I hope I am; because some days, you’re the husky and other days you’re not.