We were leaning on a bridge railing watching Island Girl and a black Lab splashing about in the stream below when I mentioned to Coby that I’d been “chronicling our get-togethers for the amusement of the masses.”

“You’re in touch with the masses?” 

“Well, not yet, maybe. But I’ve a lot of people in my address book who have a lot of people in their address books who have a lot of people in their address books, and you never know."

“You could wake up, tomorrow morning, find your house surrounded by paparazzi.”

“Exactly."

Island Girl was making her way up the bank from the stream, struggling a bit at the steepest part. She was beginning to show her age.

“I’m feeling obliged, now, to be interesting,” said Coby, “and I don’t know that I’m up to it.”

“Not to worry, my friend—I edit out the boring bits. The bigger challenge is that you and I rarely, if ever, disagree, so there’s no butting of heads to engage and hold the reader’s interest. I’ve been thinking, to heighten the drama, I may have to fabricate a few things from time to time. Either that or, for the sake of my art, start hanging out with less agreeable people.”

“Here comes one, now,” said Coby.

He was looking at the tall, purposeful woman in black striding in our direction with a small dog in red attire under one arm. He asked if I’d ever spoken to her. I said I hadn’t.

“I have,” he said, and from his wallet withdrew a twenty dollar bill, which he said was mine if I could talk to this woman for any more than five minutes without losing my cool. More than ten minutes, he’d double it.

I told him he was being reckless with his money.

“Maybe,” he said. “We’ll see.”

The woman, by now, was only a few strides from either crossing the bridge or continuing along the path she was on. While I could certainly have used the money, I was dreading the encounter, so was mostly relieved when she strode on past the bridge looking neither left nor right. Even her dog was looking straight ahead.

“We’ve been spared,” said Coby, returning the twenty to his wallet.

“Spared what, exactly?”

“Her certainty. You know who she reminded me of? Artie Shaw once told a woman that he wished he was as certain of one thing as she was of everything. That’s who she reminded me of—that woman. Certain of everything. And belligerent about it. A few minutes of that, I wanted to shove her into Burke Brook. And did you notice her dog? Why do people do that—make their dogs wear coats over their coats in weather like this? Imagine how uncomfortable that must be." 

"There was a woman on Dragons Den, recently,” I said, “touting an elaborate line of doggy wear. Maybe you saw it ... no? To show her line, she’d hired the services of a half-dozen dog models. She’d outfitted one as an alligator, another as Daffy Duck, another as a fairy princess, and so on—it was ridiculous. No, it was more than that—it bordered on animal cruelty. I have no idea if dogs get embarrassed, but these sure looked like they were and, by midway through the woman’s pitch, all six had slunk off into the shadows and were flopped down on the studio floor staring straight ahead, like they’d lost their will to live. It might have been a Saturday Night Live sketch.”

“How can you claim to love dogs and do that to them?"

“People go overboard, no question,” I said, “but I’m not as black and white on the issue as I once was. There’s a woman in the building dresses her small poodle in a pink knitted outfit, and I used to think less of her for it, but, you know, I watch them out on the back lawn together and you’d be a long time finding a happier little dog than that one—bounds about just full of joy. She clearly loves her owner and is clearly loved back, and that’s the important thing, so I’ve softened my views.”

“I guess if it’s done with love,” said Coby, “though causing discomfort is an odd way of showing your love.”

“When you think about it,” I said, “having to wear a few clothes from time to time is probably no different to a dog than having to speak or roll over—it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever but, if you go along with it, you get treats and caresses.”

“Sounds right to me,” said Coby. “Be like one of us spinning around on one foot with his fingers in his ears for a Big Mac and a neck massage. I’d do that, wouldn’t you? Spin around for a Big Mac and a neck massage?”

Without waiting for a reply, he stepped back from the railing and, with his fingers in his ears, gave a demonstration. Or attempted to, anyway. His first try, he made it only part way around and I had to grab his shirt to keep him from falling. He tried a second and third time with the same results and, left winded and a little dizzy, was now gripping the railing with both hands to steady himself.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Given the risk of personal injury, I probably wouldn’t spin for less than a Big Mac Combo and a neck massage.”

“You might be pricing yourself out of a treat,” I said. “I’ll put it to the masses later, see what they think.”

Island Girl was standing at the fence, ears up, not moving a muscle, her full attention focussed on something beyond her reach among the trees.

“Do you think we’ll ever grow up?” Coby asked.

“I doubt we’ve anything to worry about,” I said. “Were it going to happen, it would surely have happened by now.”