On a recent balmy evening, Tommy and I strolled down Topeka Street around dinnertime. There was a lot of activity—kids playing, neighbors out conversing—and such a pleasant summer atmosphere, until I heard a big hacking noise and then a spit come from across the street. I kept my gaze focused directly ahead so my displeasure didn’t register with the neighbors. (I find that often the most neighborly thing you can do is to keep your opinions to yourself.) But as I walked by, I snuck a peek to get a glimpse of the offender walking toward his car. Just as I did a booming voice came from the same yard.
“What kind of dog is that?”
The voice came from a man seated on the porch and mostly hidden from view behind tall bushes. I could see he was leaning forward, looking at me and waiting for an answer.
“A pit bull mix,” I yelled back.
With a jazzy cadence, he said “Girl, you dangerous.”
I laughed and kept walking, and he called after me, “You dangerous!”
Spitting or no spitting, I love the comments from the neighborhood peanut gallery Tommy so often evokes.