Brody stared at me with doleful eyes. He was ready to retire for the evening, but not until he had one more crack at hosing down as many trees/trash cans/buildings as possible. I knew what he wanted, but loathed the idea given it was 11:30 and the volume, both physical and aural, of Saturday night revelers had reached its apogee. At this time of night, we would be forced to run a gauntlet of drunks, panhandlers, and other lost souls. If he could just hold out another hour…

I relented. Brody was insistent so I leashed him up and we descended to street level. Upon exit, a choice was to be made. To our right was Gomez, the taco place. To our left, Bloom, the gay bar. At this time of night, neither establishment was able to contain their patrons, many of whom were milling about on the street, standing in the way of our otherwise short journey around the block. We chose to go left, figuring the circular nature of the route would regardless force us to contend with both groups. The interruptions were immediate.

“Aww! Look how cute!”

“What kind of dog is that?”

“Beautiful dog!”

“Can we pet your dog?”

This was the first round of the aforementioned gauntlet. Well-meaning drunks who, apparently, had never seen a dog outside of a zoo or, perhaps, Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. I responded through clenched jaw and forced smile.

“Thank you.”

“Australian Shepherd.”

“Thank you.”

“If he’ll let you. He can be a little antsy.”

This last was necessary because Brody, on occasion, would attempt to herd the drunks. This herding behavior could involve a little light nipping, easily be misinterpreted as biting. Luckily, Brody wasn’t in the mood, and did nothing more aggressive than smell the extended hands of those attempting to pet him.

We moved on.

Everything was fine until we reached the puking girl. Slumped at the far corner of Bloom, back to the wall, she sat hurling on the sidewalk between her legs. Her friend (I assume) patted her on the shoulder, telling her everything would be alright. I supposed this was true, though from the look of things her recovery period would last many hours. The sick, unfortunately, did not bother my dog. Not at all. Indeed, he lunged toward the growing puddle of stank like it was going to be his last meal. I, however, was already on high alert and managed to reel him in before anything untoward took place. With Brody safely restrained, we moved on, leaving the girl to be attended to by friends and sympathetic bar patrons.

Next stop was the corner of the Emery Building, on which Brody had been relieving himself for years. While he refreshed his odiferous dominance, I glanced around for Templeton, the rat that lives in the alley between Bloom and the Emery. But he was nowhere to be seen, no doubt hunkered down, waiting for the bars to close, at which point he would claim his share of leftover sidewalk food. A couple nights earlier I caught him dragging a pork chop down the street. I had no idea from whence came the pork chop, but Templeton is clearly resourceful.

We continued unmolested until we hit the first corner of our one-block walk. There a panhandler sat against the corner of the building, announcing his condition with one of the ubiquitous cardboard signs visible all over the city. Brody sniffed his pants while he asked for money.

“Sorry, buddy. I don’t have any money on me.”

This was absolutely true. I’m not known to carry a wad of cash during the average dog-walking experience. The gentlemen, however, surely assumed I was lying, despite living in the post-pandemic world, where the vast majority of transactions are electronic. I wished him well and moved on.

For the dog’s sake we ventured out to the grassy knoll separating the east and west bound traffic on Central Parkway. This is Brody’s favorite place to poop, which he did without hesitation despite being sandwiched by six lanes of loud, opposing traffic. I was in awe of his Zen-like ability to concentrate on the task at hand, ignoring all distractions. Would that we could all display such determination.

Now, full poop bag in hand, we left the median strip and headed up Jackson, on which the Know Theatre lives. Given the late hour I was surprised to spy a thicket of theater goers hovering around the entrance. I wasn’t sure if the evening’s play ran late or if it was a private party, but Brody and I were again forced to run a gamut of people who’d never met a dog in person.

“Cute dog!”

“Aww! What kind of dog is that?”

“Can we pet him?”

Ugh. It seems there’s a high correlation between one’s level of drunkenness and how amazing one believes dogs to be.

“Thanks!”

“Australian Shepherd.”

“If he lets you. He can be a little antsy.”

We emerged from the cluster unscathed, and Brody resumed peeing on any and all available vertical protrusions. Trees, streetlights, trash cans, and parking meters were all fair game, and everything was fine until we turned onto 12th.

That’s when I saw them. Scooters. The bane of pedestrians’ existence. Though clearly marked “Do not ride on the sidewalk,” this instruction was blithely ignored more often than not, especially by drunks on a Saturday night.

The first of the Devil’s Death Machines was piloted by a female. To her credit, she managed to squeeze herself between me and the German Insurance building as she whizzed by. The next scooter, however, operated by a male, appeared far more unwieldy. I watched anxiously as the wobbly device hurtled toward Brody and me. Pushing the dog out of harm’s way, I consequently absorbed a glancing blow from the driver of the two-wheeled street trash. Amazingly, I survived the encounter completely intact, but the former occupant of the scooter was not so lucky. He now lay in the street, uttering a stream of apology even before he pulled himself to his feet. His sincerity diffused my righteous anger, and Brody and I moved on after making sure the fallen scooter aficionado (unfortunately) did not require an ambulance.

A few more steps and we’d be home. Only one obstacle stood in our way: Gomez, through the door of which a constant stream of patrons was entering and exiting. Once more into the breach.

“Aww! Cute dog!”

“Your dog is beautiful!”

“Is that an Australian Shepherd?”

“Can we pet him?”