I’m standing outside a warm storefront, the sidewalk littered with remnants of last night’s party crowd. It’s just cold enough to see your breath and I shiver at the light November breeze rolling across me. Empty cups, beer cans and half-eaten pizza crusts are strewn about, piquing the interest of two white dogs I hold tight on a dual leash. They pull away from me, inching closer to the pizza crusts while I make eye contact with my wife through the store window. She shakes her head, meaning no dogs allowed in this store.
It’s a Chicago thing. If we were in Wisconsin or Michigan or Minnesota, the answer would have far likelier been yes. For whatever reason, the further north I go in the Midwest, the friendlier they are to dogs, the more amenable they are to having two little critters running around in their store.
The dogs’ back legs are shivering. I’m shivering. I find a park bench, scoop up the little muppets and tuck them into my jacket to keep them warm and away from the pizza crusts. They have food sensitivities because, of course. Everything about them seems to be exceptional — in both good and bad ways.
How many times have I done this, waited outside a store with two little dogs while my wife shops? Sitting here, I think over all that has been sacrificed in the name of dog ownership. Servitude is, perhaps, a better word than ownership.
