My dog died Wednesday. Her name was Bella, Italian for “beautiful.” Part German Shepherd and part greyhound, she was colored like a shepherd – mainly black and tan, with white on her face and the edges of her ears – and built like a greyhound – long, wasp-waisted and deep-chested. And that face! No dog was ever more aptly named.
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The other day Liz and I were discussing the stereotype of the grouchy older person — the “get off my goddam lawn!” dude we used to make fun of. Based largely on experience, I’m of the opinion that older people aren’t necessarily grouchy—they’re just fed up. After 60-plus years of bullshit (both theirs and others’, but especially others’) they’ve had their fill, and they’re old enough that they don’t care who they piss off.
Yesterday morning, like most Saturday mornings, I walked to our neighborhood bakery. This is sort of a Saturday tradition. Bella and I get a walk, she gets a sausage kolache, and I get to check out what we fondly refer to as “our village.”
Jeff Carmack 