Wilson (Explored June 7/09)

Sheree and I went back to the Downtown Farmer's Market yesterday.

 

I'd half-hoped to run into Trinity or the Musician Person we met a couple of weeks ago.

 

Neither showed. But Wilson did.

 

Wilson is a dog. He rides with his friend Clyde on a motorized wheelchair.

 

“Cute little guy,” I remarked to myself. . I started grabbing for my camera.

 

"Make sure you ask," warned my wife absently. She was entranced with photographing fricking flowers in front of a broken window. Sure...the flowers were pretty.

 

But c'mon, this was a dog with a hat...and sunglasses. REAL art. I shake my head as I walk away. Usually I suspect the mental stability of anyone who puts clothes on an animal. But this little guy was...cute.

 

Some people's priorities...

 

I introduced myself to Clyde and we chatted a little about the unseasonably cold weather. (If you look in Wilson's sunglasses, you'll see me attired in shorts pretending my butt isn't freezing off...cause that's what guys do, lest their wives remind them they have perfectly good pants at home.)

 

I ask if I can take the dog's picture. Clyde says "Go for it."

 

So I do. But this dog won't look at me. He's whipping his head around looking everywhere but at me.

 

I move. The dog moves. It’s like he knows in his little dog brain that I am trying to photograph him and he’s decided it’s not going to happen. Wilson is probably afraid that the other dogs will see him in sunglasses and a goofy hat, and that they will all point and laugh.

 

Clyde, seeing my predicament, grabs Wilson's head, grips it between two meaty hands and points it at me. But Wilson protests vigorously...which is a reasonable reaction if you ask me. This is not the picture I want: cute dog getting strong-armed by Clyde.

 

"Try giving him a treat," says Clyde. He produces a slightly rancid piece of meat. He thrusts it at me. It smells bad and is coated with a thin film of something slimy. At one point I think it may have been pepperoni.

 

"Hold it out in front of him. He'll look at you," suggests Clyde.

 

Holding it gingerly between two fingers, I raise it. Wilson has seen it. His eyes are glued to me. (At least he looks that way.) I am trying to balance the camera with one hand and lure his attention with the other. I want to frame the shot so there's a little Clyde in the background.

 

Wilson suddenly bares his teeth and growls at me.

 

Clyde laughs.

 

"Sometimes he has to speak for his food."

 

"That's speaking?" I ask.

 

Clyde nods and favors me with a look that may or may not have been patronizing. I am after all a big guy intimidated by a little dog in a straw hat.

 

I can see his point.

 

Wilson's attention is fixed on me. His head is down and he is growling softly. I think I see a small string of drool that slips out of his mouth and sizzles softly on the pavement.

 

"He looks like he's gonna take my finger off," I observe shrewdly.

 

"Nah. Try again," says Clyde.

 

I do and this time the fricking dog nips at my fingers. Our eyes meet. We understand each other. Wilson hates me. After all, he had a perfect opportunity to politely take the meat, but chose to be a nasty little shit instead. The cute quotient is disappearing at an alarming rate...

 

I drop the meat. Wilson looks down at it for an uncomprehending moment and then back at me, like he can't believe any human could possibly be so stupid. He cocks his head to one side and I am pretty sure is wishing had taken my whole hand when he had a chance. Then he straightens his head.

 

That's when I take the picture.

 

Seconds later he bares his teeth again. I pick up the meat. I explain to him that I use my fingers for typing, for doing magic shows and clicking the shutter -- and if he bites me...I will eat him.

 

Clyde laughs.

 

Clyde thinks I am kidding.

 

Wilson takes the meat from my hands very gently and starts looking around the farmer's market again.

 

Everywhere but at me.

 

Thanks, Wilson. Good boy.

Done