I’m en route to get my hair done after waking up resembling a rat with an explosion of gray hair. All I need is a tail and a nice hunk’a cheese.
As I tool down Amsterdam Avenue, a shamatta on my head, I see a Pitbull with one bigger than mine loping towards me alongside an imposing fella with his Yankee cap turned backwards.
Now remember, I’m the one who pops into the lion’s cage and says, here kitty, kitty, so the size of this doggie or his owner for that matter, hardly stands in my way of stopping to chat.
“Awe, look at him, ” I say, as though he were a poodle. “Is he a morning person? Ya know, is he friendly?”
“Oh yeah, he looves people.”
“What’s his name?”
Now between my hearing loss and the jackhammering on the corner, I ask him three times.
“Ulvis,” he keeps saying.
After my third who, he starts wiggling his hips.
“You know, Ulvis.”
“Elvis? You mean there’s a whole lotta shaking goin on Elvis?”
He laughs while 4-legged Elvis ambles over to say hi, his chest the size of a beer keg.
He’d come, run away, then come back again.
“He shy,” his dad says.
The love between them makes Timmy and Lassie look like amateurs. After a good ten minute visit, I leave with such a smile becoming contagious every time I think of those wiggling hips
People smile back, having no idea I’m beaming because…
I had just met the King.