On Saturday I was on my way home from the Upper West Side when I met a pit bull named Monty. His owner was talking to him about why he really shouldn’t be getting another cookie.
“You’re too fat Monty,” he said the way your grandmother might – firm but with tons of maternal love. Naturally I stopped to put in my two cents and get a cheap feel. Pits are so solid that if you shut your eyes you can pretend they’re Russell Crowe or someone equally as huggable. No, Clooney’s too skinny…no meat there to dig your nails into. Monty let me pet him not taking his eyes off of his master’s front right pocket for one second.
Ah, the cookie jar.
“Were you two just at the gym?” I asked assessing their attire. The guy had on 3 ply bike pants and a sweaty hoodie while Monty wore a T-shirt rolled halfway up his belly like a sumo wrestler. They looked like they had just gotten through a serious morning of bench pressing. “We went for a run,” the guy said, “best way to knock off a few pounds.” I loved how he winked in the dog’s direction as he said this.
He then looked at Monty and said, “Okay, but this is the last one,” before handing over that cookie. Made me laugh since they were both so tough looking on the outside but with big, soft, gooey centers. I’ve learned never to go by the packaging.
“Was Monty a rescue?” I asked, already knowing the answer. How did I know? There’s a special bond between the person who went to that shelter and the puppy he came out with that blinks like neon.
“Yes,” he said, “had him for 4 years.”
“I think that’s so noble that you gave him a home.”
“Are you kidding,” he said, while rubbing Monty beneath his enormous chin.
“This guy…he’s my heartbeat.”
Their sweetness increased mine as I made my way home.