Sandy and Paul
"Gimme a break, Moron! You think I'm gonna help a man whose dog looks like that?" He was a man who had a dog of his own.
"What? What? She's... she's okay. I take good care of her, you fuckhead."
The man lurched to the right as he passed the derelict and his derelict dog. Who knew how dangerous this growling animal might be.
"...She'll fuckin' chew your face off, you. You're the moron!"
Dog and man turned to face the devil.
What they saw rushing away from them was a well-coiffed head above a green golf shirt, collar lifted. A young man cool in his chinos. A man who had turned his back to them and was walking - nearly running - away.
The sunbleached dog with a very long tail, wagged it.
Mr. Paul K. Morrison jeopardized his balance, He set his cane on the sidewalk. But like him, it tended to the right.
He leaned over just enough to scratch his dog's ears.
They walked away, finally, the dog forcing him forward.
The reason she looked so bad - if that was the case, which it wasn't - was because she was nearly fifteen years old. Her paws were as street-worn as her man, and, frankly, they were both sick to death of assholes.
There was a moon that night - lower and more orange than either had ever seen. The next morning there would be an article in the St. Pete Times about this unique moon.
The dog, whose name no one would ever know, led the man more toward the river than toward the park bench where they always landed for the night.