Dog days of summer

While slipping out for a slightly-post-sunset stroll,  I descended the hill on Linden Avenue and was dismayed to spot a tiny dog trotting on the opposite side -- trailing a lead about four times its length, with a cluster of empty poop-bags attached to the end.  Well, I was relieved that the trailing poop-bags were empty, but in this neighbourhood, seeing an unaccompanied dog conjures up scary visions of an elderly person collapsed somewhere.

Distracted and concerned, I crossed the street rather more automatically than I should, my peripheral vision belatedly registering a cyclist whizzing down the hill.  He missed me by a comfortable margin, while I kept my eyes on the dog.  It turned and gazed at me.  I called softly, and it came to be petted, while I quietly pulled the lead into my hand.

Straightening up, I saw a woman striding toward me on the cross street.

"No, not my dog," she said, in response to my questioning glance.  Beyond her,  a roly-poly woman appeared to be looking around on the sidewalk.  She approached me unhurriedly, taking a few minutes, and yes, the dog was hers.  She told us (striding lady had paused) that the dog was deaf and near-sighted, being fifteen years old.

And trailing her leash on the very edge of a curb near a hill with speeding cars and cyclists, while you stroll a good half-block away, I thought to myself, saying out loud:  "I'm so glad she's yours; I thought somebody might be hurt."

The little dog had finally clocked that her mistress was a few casual steps away, and shuffled towards her, the bags whispering on the concrete.