The street solicitor rolls up on me, all ready to lay down her spiel, when she catches sight of Coco. "Aw, how old is your dog?" she says, shifting tactics, thinking to get in that way.
I meet her with my softest, most gentle demeanor, and start talking about the doge: how old she is, her blindness, her slow descent into dementia, her actual sweetness behind her gruff and neurotic exterior - just chatting, but trying to be as honest and real as I can be.
The dog stands through all of this as silent and unmoved as a cow, until quite abruptly she's had enough and she walks off, pulling me behind her, and the street botherer almost sheepishly just sort of lets me go with a, "Have a nice day," as though, after our real conversation, she's unable or unwilling to transition back into her role of pitchman for unnecessary goods and services.
One year ago: Wait, Do You Think I'm Racist?
Two years ago: Caught
Three years ago: The More Things Change, Part 2
Four years ago: A Soaking