along a busy street. The sun was high, its light and heat intense. A gentle breeze cooled Stoneslide’s fellow pedestrians, about twenty in number, as everyone waited.
One person was telling her friend how she and her husband had just got a rescue dog. To her friend she described the dog’s looks, his powerful and surprising bathroom habits, his tendency to chew despite his not completely youthful age. But someone had not wanted this beautiful dog, and turned him loose. This beautiful, beautiful rescue dog.
Rescue dog. I began to wonder if there wasn’t something kind of sad in her friend not reminding her that a rescue dog runs in snow withers-deep with a small cask of brandy on its collar. A rescue dog walks sure-footed through earthquake rubble, searching for survivors.
The light changed. The crowd started moving, and the sound of their conversation washed away in the mobile sun bath.
