Yesterday as I moseyed around the State Fair grounds, I happened upon Frank Barr who, with his wife, makes Faerie Houses. He was manning their booth and it seemed like a chance to chat with a fellow artist. Also, there was nothing going on in his booth.

As he was asking me questions and we were trading information, I realized that as an artist, my life seems pretty pathetic. I found myself trying to make it seem a little more like what it really is - just life - but I think I sounded like the knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail: "Just a flesh wound!" Bleeding all over the place. 

It just doesn't sound good, you know? No, Frank, I don't do art fairs anymore and the kiln is broken, and no, I don't actually have a studio anymore, and well, no I don't really teach anywhere anymore. And no, I'm not still working at the art center. And no, I don't have really anything to do with it anymore. And well, okay, it's true that I don't sell my work anymore. But REALLY, it's all good! Oy, I ended up wishing that I hadn't even stopped to chat. He had this look on his face like he was trying to figure out why I was still standing there talking to him. And I wasn't really sure at that point. Probably should have kept walking. And eventually, after clearly too long of a conversation, I did.

Then I went back to the West End Market and bought a piece of pottery there. It was super cute. And I kept my yap shut.

Today is both National Dog Day and my birthday. I'm trying not to take that personally. I had promised the dogs earlier that I would take them out somewhere, but now I'm wondering if they remember and plan to hold me to that, because I kind of don't feel like it anymore. The sun was out and shining and now it's cloudy and I'm kind of tired.

I'm upstairs in the office and the dogs are up here with me. They aren't normally allowed up here, so kind of this is going somewhere, right? Damn close to an adventure if you count that they had to walk past the cat boxes on their way up here. 

I can hear the cats fighting out in the hallway. I have no idea what's up with that, but Gypsy is now at the door whining because she's the official investigator of all cat goings-on and probably needs to know what's happening.

Well, anyway, another thrilling birthday and I suppose I should change and go get Marv and head to dinner. I should also mow the lawn. It's looking pretty damn scraggly.

Walking the Dogs

So, in the course of doggie events, it became necessary to walk the dogs. And it became anecdotally evident to me that the very act was conducive to human interaction and just had to make the world a better place.

In what became a two hour walk, we strolled through Central Park, and two small children came running over to the dogs and stopped about five feet away, pondering the possibilities. I got down on my knee and beckoned to them. Their parents sat at a picnic table about twenty feet yonder, watching. 

The little one, who was about two years old reached out and touched Gypsy, then reeled back, squealing with delight. Gypsy was nonplussed. The older one, I'd gauge him to be about four, sidled closer, but didn't touch. 

Then little droolie (the small child) again reached out to Gypsy, who stepped towards him to sniff the purple juice leaking from his tiny lips. He again convulsed with delight and the giggles bubbled out of him. 

I asked his older brother if he wanted to pet Nikki, who was bored and aloof, looking for all the world like an old man who wanted nothing more than a nap. He explained to me that he didn't have a dog, but tomorrow was going to get a fish. He held out his hand and Nikki gave it a non-committal sniff.

"Someday maybe you'll get a dog, huh?" I asked him. He smiled and nodded.

The little one, in the mean time, was dodging around Gypsy as if he were trying to plan his next foray into her fur. She watched him and wondered if his fingers were also lined with that sweet smelling sauce. 

The kids' mom, who had maintained her distance, came over with her camera and got down about five feet away. "Carlos...Carlos" she called to the little one. And then something in Spanish which I didn't understand but apparently meant, "Look this way, Kid, I want to take your picture." He gleefully laughed and ruffled Gypsy's mohawk. She took several pictures, which assume were blurry, but will serve as proof of the encounter none the less. Then she sat back on her heels and grinned at me. 

I grinned back. The dogs panted and the kids smiled at the dogs. 

A small bridge was built today between my neighbors and me through our dogs. We don't know each other, we don't live within blocks, we don't even speak the same language. But we know that when a two year old giggles, it's time to pay attention. 

And THAT is what a dog walk is about.

The End.