It ain't Starbucks. When I find something like this, I'm reduced to a blubbering blob of human protoplasm. It is the positive counterpart to all my ranting against the false god, Chromos, who has been spotted in another manifestation, the newest wall mural downtown.
Although I seldom go into such places, in a local coffee shop the coffee girl had an idea of how to handle a problem with my new dog, Coffee Girl. Her fear and hostility toward other dogs had been a source of misery to both of us. I felt like a deadbeat dog dad.
We acted on her suggestion of going to Silver City's dog park. I gave up on them years ago because of the bullies. We entered the dog park with a fatalistic doom over our heads, like the "Gladiator" in the recent movie, going into the Coliseum. But it wasn't the RVBE who, about to die, hailed and saluted Caesar. It was this sweet girl who depended on me for so much.
Only one dog was there, a male collie thankfully, who was more interested in chasing a tennis ball than in tridenting Coffee Girl with his canine teeth. She raised her hackles like a porcupine, as always. But the worst never happened.
Then a young man appeared with two pit bulls, and I knew our brief spell of good luck was over. But again there was a surprise. Never have I seen a more expert animal handler. He was an Indian with a name as unpronounceable as his dogs'. He taught me a lot. I teased him by calling him the Dog Whisperer.
Towards dusk, when a canine's crepusculent inner demons wail at full force, we returned to the Arena of Death. And for the third time, a miracle.
Her youthful energies spent, Coffee Girl interrupted the frantic tribal dance to come back to me. There was a beatific aura about her. Once again Time and Place had worked their magic.
