A snowy early-evening, out with the greyhound. It was the first real snow of the season. She, the greyhound, looked quite genteel in her lavender jacket, the one I make her wear in the snow or if the temperature drops under 25 or so. She was as excited as I by the weather, occasionally leaping vertically, overcome with excitement. Her first choice would have been to run in the snow, down the sidewalk, and I would have been happy to accommodate her had I not been wearing a suit, overcoat, and dress shoes. She was built to run after all and, I imagine, sorely disappointed that her attempts to get me to run with her were doomed to fail. So she took to leaping. What’s an excited greyhound to do when her owner isn’t cooperating?
I’m not really sure why dogs like snow so much. Maybe it’s because they don’t see it terribly often, at least not in Cincinnati. We get snow, sure, and we’ve had some pretty hard-core winters, but as a rule my city isn’t exactly the great white north. In the months when this part of the country begins to burst with a verdant green, the lakes in Minnesota are still frozen, or so I believe. I’ll pause here if anyone from Minnesota would like to disagree…
There we were, the two of us, enjoying the snowfall in the city. We were about a block from the condo, heading west, when I first saw him. A runner, coming toward us on the sidewalk, clearly enjoying the snow as much as we. In anticipation of his arrival, I geared up a standard greeting, something along the lines of “How’re you doing?” or “Nice running weather, huh?” The greeting had to be ready to go. He would run by so fast I’d hardly have time to get the words out.
Before I had the opportunity to be friendly, however, the oncoming exercise maven veered to his right, onto the street, into the path of oncoming traffic. Initially I figured he was doing it to avoid the big dog in the lavender jacket. Though not at all bulky, the greyhound is quite tall and muscly, and I must admit I’ve previously borne witness to some murderous behavior on her part. On two occasions she’s displayed an uncanny ability to snatch low flying birds right out of the air. (Authors note: Due to lightning-fast human intervention, both birds survived.) So I believed the runner’s fear of animal attack, if that were the problem, was justified, though he had not been present for either low-flying- bird incident. It was only as he passed, however, that I realized my fear-of-dog assumption was completely off the mark.
“Thanks for wearing a mask!”
The sarcasm was difficult to miss. I was, indeed, not wearing a mask. It is not my habit to wear a mask outside at any time. It is OUTSIDE, after all, and even our advisors at the CDC tell us it’s nearly impossible to catch the plague while your outside in the breeze and, certainly, the chances of catching it as one runs past another human are infinitesimal. Never the twain shall meet, so to speak, and in such a tiny moment the twain most assuredly won’t pass the plague to each other.
My acerbic response was the following: “You’re weeeelllllcome!”
I was fine with the exchange. In these days of a not-too-deadly virus being passed around like a cheap bottle of wine, this sort of behavior is almost expected. I mean, I don’t bear any ill-will toward anyone whose mask regimen is less restrained than my own. Heck, the ubiquitous masks don’t just (barely) filter our air, they also help keep your face warm and hide ugly scars or blemishes. Or noses.
But here’s the thing about this particular incident: The gentleman runner was mask-less.
Yes, your honor, the accuser was as guilty as the accused.
This truth astonished me, and I said as much to the dog, who responded with a bored stare. It was clear she hadn’t been paying attention to what had just happened, or else I’m sure she would have been just as frustrated as I and, dare I admit, just a tad outraged. I mean, had the young gentlemen never learned the meaning of ‘double-standard?” Or the old saw about something being good for the goose is also good for the duck? In the words of President Joe Biden, “C’mon, man!”
In my annoyance I began to imagine a scene where this guy, the guy who just assaulted me with irony, runs around town trying to avoid everyone on the street, or at least everyone who hasn’t bothered to cinch a chin diaper to their face in anticipation of his unscheduled, lighting-fast arrival and departure. Unsurprisingly, imagining the scene described above drove me further down a hole of annoyance, a situation for which I presently had no outlet. The fact that the runner, now long gone, was likely in hearing range of my less-than-witty riposte was all the succor I had available.
It was clear my only choice, my only chance for some sort of relief or karmic revenge, was to go home and regale my significant other with this story, to offload this tale of how I had been sorely wronged while benignly attempting to walk my dog. Only then would things be right with the universe.
“Let’s go, girl.”
The dog and I picked up our pace and within the space of eight minutes we were home. Two minutes after that I had my coat off and dove headlong into the yarn, ending triumphantly with “and then I said ‘You’re weeeelllllcome!’”
“Well, that’s stupid.” She said this as she poured us each a glass of wine, and with about as much enthusiasm as the greyhound had mustered. I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the behavior of the runner or that of myself, and thought it best not to dig deeper. But I still needed closure.
“Hey. I think I’ll take her for a run.”
It was clear she hadn’t been paying attention, or else I’m sure she would have been just as frustrated as I and, dare I admit, just a tad outraged.
