The Dogs Have It Right.

Lexi, on her walk.

At 7:22 this morning, Lexi elbow-crawled her way up from the foot of the bed (that’s where she sleeps), negotiated the passageway between Rachel and me, put her snoot against my ear and woofed. I woke up, as she had planned, and stepped into clothes, and found her leash and took her out because she had to pee.

It was a nice, warm November morning. At the corner of 17th Street and D Street, as usual, LSD was there. I don’t know her real name, but she’s a Little Shitty Dog, so I use the acronym. She’s the size and has the coat of a Guinea Pig and runs as fast as a bead of mercury on a wet mirror, back and forth, back and forth, constrained by the chainlink fence that encloses her yard. She and Lexi touched noses, tails wagging. She likes Lexi because little dogs like big dogs who are unthreatening, and Lexi likes LSD because she is little and unthreatening.

“I have a belly, you know,” LSD informed me, as she always does, presenting it for inspection by standing up on the chainlink. I tickled her with a pinkie through the diamond-shaped holes, as always. If she could, she’d remain there being tickled for 20 minutes, but as always I had to go.

It was the start of rush hour. The temperament of the drivers had changed on this day. There were impatient honkings of horns and at least one “move, asshole!” uttered at a red light that had turned green but been momentarily ignored. Washington is a Democratic town. And a Black town. It was a bad morning for all of us humans.

At 16th and D, Lexi and I encountered Roger, or Robert — I can never remember the name — a spaniel who is Lexi’s size, and therefore a potential Enemy. When they see each other, they both assume that ground-hugging stance of a panther about to strike. Having assured each other of their potential lethal ferocity, they moved peacefully on.

On C Street there was a squirrel who took too long to dart up a tree when Lexi approached, so Lexi growled and lunged, just to establish who was boss. She actually likes squirrels and would never hurt one. But she also likes when they scatter in her presence.

When we got home, Lexi informed me she was hungry, and in the usual fashion. She went to the couch, grabbed Rachel’s pocketbook in her mouth, flung it to the floor, and snurfled inside for lipstick, which she likes to eat. Lexi is not a master of communication, but her method is effective. I gave her some kibble and she stopped misbehaving. Then she went upstairs, back to bed beside Rachel. I didn’t. I was wide awake and upset, and started to write … this.

The dogs have it right. Life goes on. If only I could see it their way.

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