The Face is Peculiar, But I Remember the Name

One of the things about living in a big city is that you walk around with a certain assumption that you are usually anonymous as you make your way through the city streets. The few occasions when I see someone I know randomly on the street are truly remarkable. I think I am probably a fairly average looking white guy on the street and therefore mostly forgettable. Forgettable that is, unless I happen to be walking the eskimo dog that likes to eat garbage. People remember him.

On Sunday night I was walking down 50th Street with my dog and some tourists came up to talk to me. They told me that they too had an eskimo dog, and oh by the way, could I recommend a pizza place in the neighborhood. I recommended Southside 49 a little place down the block that had recently opened. They said "Merry Christmas" and went on their way.

This morning I watching the dog carefully as we walked down 49th street. As if I don't have enough problems trying to keep him from eating chicken bones and pizza crusts off the street, now I have to keep him from eating the dirty snow that is piled up all over the city. I've also discovered that the ice melt stuff people throw on the sidewalk burns his little eskimo paws and he has zero threshhold for pain. While trying to keep an eye on the dog, my headed jerked up when I heard someone say, "hey, thanks for the recommendation on the pizza. It was delicious." My tourists had returned. So much for anonymity. I'm officially the guy in the neighborhood with the fluffy white dog.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Last week my Eskimo Dog injured himself while we were out walking. I picked him up in my arms to quickly cross 49th Street and when I put him down on the sidewalk he began howling in pain. I couldn't imagine what had happened. I checked his pads to see if he had cut or pinched himself but he seemed fine. He was clearly in excruciating pain and his 2 minutes of howling drew a crowd. A few people at the bus stop came over to see if they could help. We all looked around the sidewalk to see if he had stepped on something but couldn't find anything. (One lady said to me, "isn't it funny how if an animal is in trouble people come running. Do you think they'd do the same for us?") I suspected that he had strained himself because his hips seem a little stiff these days when he gets up after lying down for a long time. I decided I would see if he could walk it off. He wouldn't put any weight on his back right leg and I had to carry him up the stairs to the 4th floor to our apartment.

That night, I decided I would let him walk it off and took him for his 11pm walk as always. BuddE was getting along ok with a pronounced limp. It was garbage night on my street and there was practically no room to walk on the sidewalk.

A guy in a Fed Ex shirt said "excuse me" and I tried to get out of his way.
He said, "No, I'm not trying to get by. I just wanted to know, is this the dog from the bus stop earlier?"
I nodded yes, sort of surprised by his recognition.
"How's he doing?"
"He seems to be doing a little better," I said.
"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it," he said and he slid by us up the alley of garbage and went on his way.

Sometimes Hell's Kitchen feels like a small town. That's nice.