April 4, 2021
At 10 p.m. on a windy night, I am bundled up, bouncing down Lyon Street with Greenberg, hyper-aware of my surroundings as I always am during the late-night walks. This block, the first of Lyon Street, which begins aat the Northern edge of Buena Vista Park, k is particularly quiet, with only a few houses on it.
I see a big SUV driving in the opposite direction to that in which I’m walking, slow down as it approaches me. My antennae start quivering. The vehicle is pulled into an almost-parkking spot, directly across the street from me. My antennae start trembling. I’d just read .in NextDoor, the neighborhood woe-is-me site, about a guy who drives around, stops near women, opens the door and masturbates. I wouldn’t be ready for this at any time of day, but in the late night, the thought is particularly disturbing. Can’t he see I’m a geezer -- gray hair, wrinkles -- not fodder for anyone’s sexual fantasies?
The driver’s side door to the SUV opens and in the dark, I can dimly make out the shadow of someone emerging. I am ready to hurry along. A flight reflex, I think, is what it’s called.
“Say,” the man begins. I can’t make out his face, but his voice is young. “Did you realize that there’s a coyote who seems to be following you? It looks as thought he has his eye on your dog.” “Really?” I say, because I am more or less dumbstruck, not only by the possible danger, but by my mistaken thoughts about why he was stopping.. “We’re just telling you because we think you ought to be careful.”
I peer into the darkness and can make out the shadow of someone else in the passenger seat next to the guy, as he climbs back into his front seat.
“I can’t thank you enough,” I stammer. I pick up my pace, not looking back. No reason for me to see the coyote and I don’t want to be with my dog within his striking distance.
I wonder whether anyone would have been so looking out for me before the pandemic. And I never walk down that street again without wondering if I could scare away a coyote.
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March 11, 2021
I harness Greenberg and bounce down the front steps with him at 5 o’clock. When we reach the sidewalk, I realize there’s another dog walking down the street, just passing. Often being surprised will set Greenberg off on a barking frenzy, but he and the other dog -- small, mostly dachshund -- seem friendly, mildly interested in each other.
The woman holding his leash tells him he’s a good dog for staying so calm, and when she does, I think I hear her say his name.
I inquire politely about his age, where she got him, how long she’s had him, the usual thing. And then I ask her his name, to make sure I’ve heard right.
“Goldberg,” she says. “Well, this is Greenberg,” I say.
We laugh, she says she’s never before encountered another “berg-dog.” Nor have I.
Greenberg and Goldberg, not seeming to think there’s anything remarkable about this, continue on their walks. Maybe some day they’ll sit down to a game of pinochle.
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February 22, 2021
Greenberg in tow, I decide to use his 5 p.m. walk as a foray to the supermarket seven blocks away. I leave my house,, cross Oak Street, and make my way north on Baker, .
past the always garbage-strewn main entrance to the DMV.
It’s 5 o’clock, and it seems that place is just closing. People are trickling from inside the building onto the sidewalk. Those who leave through the doors in back are headed toward cars parked in the lot. Those in front are going to cars parked along Baker Street, or buses or, perhaps, waiting for pick-ups from friends or Uber, Lyft.
Greenberg is excited to be out, roaming all over the sidewalk, peeing here and there on a few sad-looking trees, sniffing for left-over snacks among the empty bags of chips and junk food blowing around in the wind. Several people look down at him and smile; his enthusiasm for life on the street and eagerness to be petted usually attract people who like dogs.
There’s a man standing in front of us, just outside the DMV door. He’s a big guy and he’s wearing a camouflage-jacket and a pair of very worn knee-length shorts It’s February, not all that warm, but this guy, who has a kind of tough look about him, seems
perfectly comfortable in his shorts. His physical presence is that of a beer drinker, a macho man.
As Greenberg bounces over to him to say hello -- that is, make his presence known -- I look down and notice that the guy has one artificial leg, only obvious because he’s in shorts. He doesn’t look impaired or frail, he looks strong, big. And immediately I think, oh, he’s a vet …. And then a second later, or maybe a victim of diabetes that caused an amputation. In any case, his posture and stance indicate that neither his place in the world, nor his place on the sidewalk, is precarious. .
Greenberg heads straight for him, and instantly, I jump to the happy ending, the upbeat observation. By the time the dog gets near the man, I am thinking, Isn’t it great that the dog doesn’t feel any of the shyness a person would feel about physically approaching a person with a disability? The animal just senses someone who might want to play with him. To him the disabled -- or perhaps I should say differently abled -- man doesn’t need pity or special care. He’s a person, looking heartier than most, in fact, and as such, a man who could be befriended.
Greenberg’s a small dog, and in his enthusiasm for a greeting, he’s apt to put his paws on the leg of someone he’s greeting. This is a behavior I should have stopped, but by the time we got him, he was five, it was habit,, and because he is so small, there is little danger of him toppling anyone, even a toddler. As I write this, even as a loving owner, I am woke enough to realize it sounds lame. O.K., I’ll own up: I like it when people are enchanted by him, so I have no inclination to stop him from approaching and laying on his canine charm.
Tail a-wagging, he runs up to the man, who looks down at this furry white thing rearing up to put his very small paws on his good leg. I watch the man’s face, looking forward to the grin that usually follows..
His brow furrows, his lips grow tight, and he looks down with snarling contempt. “What the fuck?” he shouts in anger. If he were a dog, too, it’s the point at which he’d be showing his teeth in a snarl.
“I’m so sorry,” I whimper, pulling Greenberg away and dragging him up the street. Pollyanna, a moment ago brimming with assumptions, is filled with remorse.
I don’t look back to see whether the man has acknowledged my apology.
I love reading your own writing. Are the Overheard columns ended?
I'm enjoying taking these walks with you, and I'm even managing to deal with the scary situations. Afterall, I'm a New Yorker. Hope to take a real walk with you and Greenberg in 2023.