In Brooklyn, a woman walks along a street shaded by decades-old mottled plane trees. Over her shoulder is a worn brown leather tote bag. A red and white folded umbrella pokes out along with a miniature white poodle. The dog’s head bobs up and down in tempo to her steps.
Approaching from the opposite direction is a lanky grey-haired man in a windbreaker. He is wrestling with a sizeable short-haired black dog whose nails scrape the sidewalk as it strains against the leash. Soon the two dog owners are just a few feet apart.
“Hello. Nice to see you, “the woman says without smiling. “I see you still have that damn dog,” the man replies, terse and breathless from attempting to control his dog.
The tone incites the small dog to bark. In response, the black dog lunges forward, brushing against the woman, causing her to stagger and almost fall to the pavement. The man watches the woman regain her balance. He offers no apology or assistance.
The poodle uses the commotion to escape from the bag and flee down the block. Hampered by the dragging leash, the other dog follows, trying to catch the poodle. The two dogs careen around the corner and disappear.
The owners search for the dogs. Independently. Bright reward posters pleading for their return go unanswered; defaced by time and weather, they tatter on light poles. The man sues the woman; the woman countersues. The judge dismisses.
After a while, the woman brings home a chubby brown and white cat that inhabits the bay window of her brownstone. The man acquires a new dog, a rust-colored Doberman pincher, and walks by the building several times a week. When the cat sees them, it rises, arches its back, and hisses. The man keeps a brisk pace past the structure while noting with a side glance that the door and window frames could benefit from a paint refresh. He suspects the woman watches him.
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