Every Monday and Thursday I go over to Abandoned Pet Rescue and walk dogs. There is nothing like watching those dogs get excited over such a simple thing as going for a walk. There's also nothing like plodding along in the hot ninety degree sun, pausing occasionally to stoop down and grab a handful of dog crap up off the ground. It's a real glamour job. Many days it is just me and another guy, Dean, who are there to walk the twenty or so big dogs. Yesterday we had a nice surprise, a new guy showed up to help us.
It's an interesting thing, this growing old. I find that the older you get, the more easily truth comes rolling off your tongue. At least that which you perceive to be the truth. It's one of Mark's pet peeves, my blurting out the obvious in public. I assume that as I get older it will get worse. By the time I'm in my eighties I'll probably be telling people that they are fat and need deodorant. I probably won't think twice about asking what the hell that tattoo on somebody's ass cheek is supposed to be. You can get away with shit like that when you're old. People will just roll their eyes and assume you're senile. But I'm not that old yet. I do have the capacity to self censor. In fact that is exactly what I did Monday morning when the new volunteer showed up to walk dogs. I did not blurt out that those were the whitest damn legs I had ever seen on a human being. I did not ask him why the pitch black hair, shaved on the sides and long in the middle, but not a Mohawk. More like a Mul-hawk. I kept my mouth shut, I did not act like a judgmental old fart. In fact, I told him that the shade of black fingernail polish he used was very nice, that the dogs would probably like it.