Friday, December 07, 2012

Designer dawg.

Through the clotted grey that Friday afternoon, I spot he, the dawg.

Don't know if he been shopping for food or what, there he been, in front o' the supermarket, by the roadside, at the top o' the hand-size parking-lot that hold ten cars.

Ain't nothing special about he, just a plain ol' kangalang, a couriat, a brown mongrel. All o' we stray dawgs is a variation o' brown. White dawgs is rare. Black 'n' brown ones is regular. But brown is the most popular colour.

Something was different about this dawg though.

Wasn't the fact that he was shine like he was getting regular food.

He was flashin' out in a striped tee-shirt. Never mind that it was a' old, hang-down, wash-out, black 'n' white 'n' yellow tee. You just don't see dawgs in clothes in these parts.

I stand there amused, a li'l worried, looking at he.

Along come a man, a long, lean, fifty-something years old man of mixed ancestry. I hear-say he useta live in Englan'. I does greet he good morning as he pass me working in we garden. I get to saying hi because o' the Exceptional Dog he does take care of, walking it every morning. 

The Exceptional Dog is as big as a cow-calf, and is barely a year old; he got fur so luxurious-long, I hope Peta don't pelt he with paint to protest...y'know how controversial they can be.

The Exceptional-Dog walking-man surprise me that gloomy aftanoon.  I thought he would be a dog-snob after dealing with such a high-brow dog.

But he stop in mid-stride, look at me looking at the tee-shirt dawg. 

He look at de dawg.  He grey eyes shine like blue. He grin.

"Eh-eh, you wearing a nice tee-shirt there, man, a fancy tee-shirt," he say.

I laugh and move closer to the dawg to examine the tee-shirt.

A GAP label on the neck pop into me eye-sight so sudden, I nearly fall down.

The dog turn to the road, lift one paw. He had a li'l anxious look on he face.

"You think it is hurt?" I ask.

"No, he ain't hurt. He just uncomfortable with the tee-shirt, he not accustomed to it."

Suddenly, another voice call from the quiet of the aftanoon. Outta the corner o' me eye I glimpse a man strolling on, shoulder-length locks and baggy clothes.

"Where ya pants, man?" he call out.

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