I take Gidi, my beloved dog, out for his evening stroll. Upon passing through the narrow lane that leads to the park, I see Crazy Old Woman heading towards us. It’s the old woman who always looks extremely sad, and always has numerous plastic bags full of, most probably, trivial items. We never talk, or even say hello. That’s what people do in America, not here.
I tighten my grip on Gidi’s leash, tugging him closer to me. It’s a pretty narrow passageway, and I know most people don’t like the way Gidi looks. He’s an Amstaff, and Amstaffs have a bad rep in Israel. But I didn’t think Gidi’s looks would trigger the response I got from the Crazy Old Lady.
“Who’s ugly?”, I asked, as Crazy Old Lady passed me by and didn’t even look back.
“Your dog. He’s an ugly dog.”
The only thing I could come up quick enough was “You’re ugly yourself!”, I yell at Crazy Old Lady’s hunched back.
Pretty lame, I know. I kept walking, fuming, but then attempted to calm myself down: “She’s a crazy old lady, Ami, take it easy”.
I guess I’m kind of over-sensitive with Gidi these days. He’s got lymphoma, and probably won’t make it through July.
We go around the park. When I get back to the narrow lane leading to the house, guess who’s coming down? Crazy Old Lady.
I tense up, imagining myself giving Gidi the order: “Kill Gidi, kill!”. Even if I wanted to, he wouldn’t. He’s pretty sure he’s a poodle.
“I was kidding! He’s a pretty dog!”
“Really, think so?”
“Yes, of course!”, Crazy Old Lady says and bends down to pet Gidi, at which point Gidi jumps up to lick her face and scares the living daylights out of Crazy Old Lady.