The wind gusts suddenly, staggering the dog, unmaking my umbrella with a scree of metal, and causing the old fellow with the dreadlocks and the cane to lean into the blast to keep from falling over.
After the wind blusters off to mug some other pedestrians, the old man notices my dog, and we get to chatting, keeping each other company on the way to her vet appointment.
"I had a dog," he says after a while of watching her trot alongside us, "and it really tore me up when she died."
"They really live inside us, don't they?" I say.