Dogs of My Life

From the window of my office I look across Amsterdam Ave and down on a group of artificial turf playing fields. Between the avenue and the fields is a strip of spring-lush grass where dog owners stroll their pets. Twice recently I have happened for no reason to glance up from my desk and see dogs of my life. First, it was Jessica, our chow in Buenos Aires, reddish-blonde coat, blue tongue, alert, and devoted to me. Not a dog that looked like her, her. Then, the second time, one of the numerous bassets that have been in the extended family for more than forty years, just the right mix of brown and white and that classic basset insouciance. Nothing matters, it says, except that now I saunter around for a bit and then go home and eat, and if the food's not quick enough in coming, bark and bay until it does.