The elderly gentleman approached

with measured steps and conscious carriage

precisely in pace with two golden retrievers

old dogs on slack leads

well-fed sleekly groomed

resigned to their constitutional hour.

They raised their heads at my approach

and one even lifted a hopeful tail.

I stopped. I love dogs.

'May I touch them?' I asked.

'Certainly,' replied the gentleman

in a clipped but not unkind voice.

I knelt and fondled the two silken heads

rubbing their ears, making doggie talk

as they pressed into my lap.

I glanced up, smiling.

The man was standing patiently

his face polite but closed

and I said, 'Would you like a pat, too?'

 

The words flipped out of my mouth

unfettered.

Shite!

My bold humour will be

the death of me some day.

And he's ENGLISH!

His eyes glazed over

as I kept my smile glued -

it was an intimate joke with a stranger

totally inappropriate

what do I do now -

Then his pupils sparked

his face broke rank and he laughed,

'No, thank you. I'm fine.'

 

He gathered in his dogs gracefully

their tails wagging leashes straining.

I stood

and we parted

the moment finished.

 

This past autumn one of his dogs died.

Their footsteps are even slower now

just man and dog.

We always nod in passing

but not smiling.

The dog does not lift its head.

I have never stopped again

nor presumed to speak.

But each time I wonder,

'Who will be gone next?'

and I feel a pang

as though I really know him.

 

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas

Jan., 2016

from a series called 'Brief Encounters'