Walking Mitchie

Walking Mitchie was a goddamn ordeal.

Every corner we turned, he had to meet someone new. It was exhausting. We weren't even to the train yet, and we'd stopped four times. Sometimes we stopped to smell an invisible spot on the floor. Then we turned another corner and oh look, there was a man minding his own business. He had a mustache. I guess we'd better go over and see what he smells like. 

For me, Mitchie had no interest in wagging his tail. But for strangers? For strangers he wagged his whole ass. 

"Oh, uh, hello," the man said, looking down. Mitchie spun around at his feet, he was so excited to meet him. I wasn't as impressed. But then, I don't think it's polite to wear a mustache indoors. The man leaned down at Mitchie to pet him, but Mitchie scrambled away from his hand. No touching, mustache man. 

"Goddamn it Mitchie, leave him be."

"I don't mind," the man said. He didn't sound so sure. This wasn't how service dogs behaved. "Is it malfunctioning?"

"He's perfectly fine," I said. What kind of question was that? "He's being friendly." While I defended his honor, Mitchie walked right past me and started licking the wall. The man stared at him. He looked back and forth between Mitchie and me, confused. Didn't he have anything better to do? "Don't let us keep you," I said. 

"You should brush its fur," the man said. Like that was some kind of cure for wall-licking. Great advice. Thank god for this guy.

He turned and walked away. 

"I'll brush your fur," I said under my breath. Mitchie licked the wall some more, oblivious. I bent down and I scratched him behind his ear. He sat there and tolerated it. "We'll brush his fur," I said. "Won't we? Brush the fur right off his dimwit face." 

I scooped Mitchie up in my arms and carried him to the train. At least he wasn't heavy. No more new friends. Enough was enough now.