When my eyes first reached the plateau of the hill I was walking up, I thought I discerned a large lump of black fur on the street side of the fence about twenty feet away.
It'll be fine, I assured myself and kept walking.
I was right, the big, black dog was lying in the shade of a bush outside his house's fence. I couldn't see his owner but kept walking towards him.
Rosco barked at me and stood up. Clayton, his owner, appeared from a few feet further back and told him it was fine in a gentle voice, picking up his leash.
The bark was more of a "Hey, who's that?" than a threatening one, so I told Rosco, "It's just me," and gave a "hey" to Clayton.
Rosco walked over, sniffed my hands hanging loosely in front of me and then put his head under them. I gave him some head rubs and wondered when the last time I'd petted a dog was.
He stepped away and picked up his stick to show it to me. It was a piece of branch, about 3" in diameter and 2.5 feet long.
Is that a piece of the old one he had? I wondered. The last branch he'd had was the same thickness but about 5 feet long. Rosco had held that stick near its end, and I'd had to protect myself from being taken out at the knees as he moved his head. His new shorter stick didn't worry me.
It didn't look like he was offering the branch to me, and I didn't want to get into a tug of war, so his owner told him, "OK, that's enough," and let me continue on my walk.
Their house is at the top of my street where there's a circular turnaround. It wasn't long before I was walking past them again on the other side of the road. Rosco was sitting up attentively, but he didn't bark as I walked past. He just watched me.
Clayton and I exchanged byes and waves, and I headed back down the street.
A year ago on TTaT: Life of Art SitRep #178 Baby Blue
46. JLA: A League of One by Christopher Moeller
