I spill out of the Rogers Park Red Line tunnel onto a farmer’s market at Glenwood and Morse, semi-circumnavigate the first stand, with its tomatoes and green beans, blueberries and (gasp!) corn on the cob, and head north on Glenwood following the El tracks, along the market to Lunt.
Today I am Bob Dylan’s answer, my friends. Today I am blowin’ in the wind, and the wind today sighs from the east, as light and playful as a hobbit fart. After a spontaneous right turn on Lunt my schnoz detects the demure odor of Lake Michigan. Capping a summer of excessively hot winds from the south and west the lake could be the perfect respite.
A block before Sheridan a huge brindle boxer (canus domesticus, not pugilistus) sits alone in the parkway grass at the end of an alley. The beast is so still and solitary he could be a pool hall statuette, or carved cigar store guardian.
Luis Bunuel or Monty Python would have a dog catcher retrieve his wooden body.
I stare as I walk, mad-dogging him, emotionally daring him from across the street to become real, thinking someone may have left him out for Amvets, or worse, the rubbish pile. Luis Bunuel or Monty Python would have a dog catcher retrieve his wooden body.
Then a figure, a man, walks down the alley towards the dog. He gets to the sidewalk, looks at the boxer, then calmly turns and retreats. Fifty paces up the alley he turns and looks at the boxer a second time, remaining every bit as telepathic as a fighter before the bell.
No word or signal is given. The dog comes to life and turns with a “well, if you insist” glance, and follows the man down the alley.
I hit Sheridan, espying the Growling Rabbit kitty-corner across the intersection. How about a Morning Glory Muffin stuffed with carrots, peaches and raisins, plus a small hot coffee to go, please?