Sitting outside a busy bakery on Saturday, The Man and I enjoyed our lunch and people watched. The line for the bakery wound its way outside of the shop door and spilled onto the sidewalk, cars clumsily parallel parked over the curb and also spilled onto the sidewalk, and dogs trailed their masters and eagerly lapped at the ground to scoop up the spilled bits of pizza, sandwiches, and pastries.
One dog, in particular, found herself tied to the sign post outside the cafe while her owner waited in the log line. The dog yipped and yapped and excitedly jumped at the end of her leash at first, and then eventually settled into a puddle of sun and laid down. Her gaze eventually landed on me, and our brown eyes met. Her panting doggy smile faded and her eyes became suspicious. "Dog killer," they accused.
I'm not kidding. That's what her eyes said.
Or maybe they said, hopefully, "Treat?" Or maybe, "I'm outside!" Or, most likely, "I'm a dog!" But what I heard was most definitely "Dog killer." Guilt is a bitch.