Moka House mutts

Making my way down Chester Street under my favourite arch of ancient maples, I paused uncertainly on the cross-street, where cars were being equally hesitant about a bumbling garbage truck.

A couple ambling up the sidewalk hailed me and, since they were wearing sunglasses and I'm face-blind, it took a few stomach-sinking seconds to place them, and realize it was one of my bête noires, a lady of sickly sweetness, and her no doubt blameless husband. I made awkward social conversation, being naturally socially awkward, and, knowing they were probably bound for Moka House as well, excused myself clumsily to avoid walking with them (possibly to their relief).

I was warmly dressed, so sat outside on the patio - bête noire et son époux had taken my favourite seat inside anyway.

I found myself amid the Moka house mutts (not all mutts, I should hastily add), whose owners find ways of setting them up, before dashing inside to grab their drinks.

One blonde beauty chilled on the steps, paws dangling. I think his/her name is Chris or Tris, and she was still damp from an ocean dip. A young man named Owen grinned at me from his high chair, thinking my smiles were meant for him. (Well, they could have been.)

Then Watson, the morning fixture, with his head-phone-wearing, laptop-bearing owner, arrived. They had lost their favourite spot too, but Owen's mother? grandmother? - she looks like she's recovering from a facelift - and Tris/Chris's owner told Watson's owner that they were leaving soon. Watson's human squatted to chat with young Owen and compare headgear, while Watson snuffled for scraps on the patio.

Once the table was surrendered, and Owen was sailing away on the back of a bike, Watson's bed was laid out, as it has been for most mornings for the past two years, at least. The minute Watson's human had vanished into the coffeehouse, Watson leapt to his feet as quickly as an elderly dog can, and resumed nuzzling the ground. He was briskly ordered back into bed, and angled his greying muzzle and paws with patient dignity.

Two other patient dogs were waiting together for the return of their coffee-carrying owners. My heart lurched. One closely resembled the late Accent Snob.

I averted my eyes, and at a neighbouring table, a pooch perched on a patio chair, gazing over the table at his owner, engrossed in her laptop. He stared and stared; one eye brilliant blue, the other a sort of hazel.

A family group gathered on the long, street-level bench that fronts the patio. A little girl gave a familiar and brief pat to the dog by her mother's knees. His eyes followed her up the steps as she darted into the café. Occasionally, he was distracted by passing dogs, sniffing in their wake, but his eyes always returned to the door. A teenager descended, plopped himself down, and cuddled the dog, burying his face in his neck. Eventually little sister returned and the dogs stood expectantly, more than ready to go.

As was I.