I live near the center of
town, which is incredibly convenient during snowstorms (I can get to stores)
and when I need work done on the cars.
It is ridiculously easy to choose between multiple service stations, all
within walking distance, and most of them reputable enough to trust with my son’s
car, which I drive rarely so I have to trust the mechanics when they tell me
what the vehicle needs to keep it running.
I have a special affinity
for the Gulf guys. I used to like the
Mobil guys, but I’ve moved on. I’ll
admit I never warmed to the Sunoco guys (no special reason), but the guy who
runs Mike’s Garage got the mini-van running enough for all of my children to
learn to drive on it. Elm Street Auto
isn’t on Elm Street anymore but kept its name, and I have a hard time trusting
someone who doesn’t know where their own garage is located, but, again, no
personal or professional reason not to go there that I can say first-hand. I’m sure there are a couple more garages I’ve
forgotten to mention, all within spitting distance of my house.
The added benefit, though,
is the walk from my house to the garage or, as the case may be, from the garage
back to my house. Sometimes I cross the
street to avoid people on the sidewalks, but today I see something that piques
my interest. I see a woman walking the
most interesting dog I have ever seen in my entire life. One of the things I like to do when I am out
walking is ask owners if I may say hello to their dog, and this dog … well,
this dog catches my eye, and I must find out more about this animal.
 |
| (Imagine this all grown up) |
When the owner and I
finally cross paths, the pup, which has been lying down on the sidewalk, stands
up on all fours. He is a tall dog,
sleek, white and gray. I make my request
to greet the dog, and the owner stops politely to indulge me. It is amazing how soft this dog’s fur is,
downy like a puppy’s. The dog’s back is
as high as my thigh. If he were a
meatier dog, he could easily accommodate a small saddle and give pseudo-pony
rides to children.
The dog, I discover, is
part Great Pyrenees. After I am done saying hello to my new furry bud, I hear a
passing car slow down, and, through the open side window, the dog’s owner
relays the same information to the motorist: part Great Pyrenees. It seems I am not the only one fascinated by
the mutt.
I continue on my way home,
only about a quarter-mile. If I had
chosen any other station, any other mechanic, any other afternoon, I would’ve
missed the dog. This is just one more
check in the column of “why I like the Gulf guys” – They’re near where the lady
walks the greatest dog I’ve ever seen up close and personal.
Honestly, though, I’d skip
the dog encounter if the cars would keep running instead.
