Preppy Girl works at a place whose “season” runs nine weeks straight in the summer. The place has concerts, plays, operas, symphonies, lectures and classes every day of the week and is crawling with rich people – new money and old. Due to the demands of the job, PGirl always has to work on July 4. Since both of our kids attend a summer school within her place of work and were participating in a “holiday parade”, I decided to join them and hang out for a while. A new, fenced-in dog run was recently installed there, so I took our pooch, Asa, along with me.
After a short walk from one of the entrances to the square of this community, I met up with PGirl, her assistant and a buddy of mine from The Unexpected Guests, who I’ll refer to as Milton F. Hunter. The parade of kids was absolutely adorable. They convened at the steps of one of the square’s buildings, sang some songs, marched to the amphitheater and sang some more. What happened as we waited for the parade to start was what I’d like to recount here.
As we waited on a sidewalk corner, many people stared at us. I thought maybe it was because of what we wore, that the rich folks could tell we weren’t money. PGirl had her work windbreaker on and I was slumming it in a pair of khaki cargos, track shoes and an oxford shirt. In L.A. I would’ve been mistaken for an incognito celebrity. In this place – a dogwalker.
But it wasn’t our clothes people were staring at. It was Asa. Our dog is a standard poodle who doesn’t wear his hair in any of the traditional poodle cuts. We usually get him short, cuts all around so he looks sort of like an Airedale. This often prompts people to look at him, wondering what breed he his. Our groomers give us shit for not asking for something fancier, but we like the way he looks. Several people approached us, saying things like, “I just have to ask, what kind of dog is he?” or “What a beautiful cinnamon boy!” (He’s apricot in color). The majority of him asked his name, which I readily revealed. After the 6th or 7th inquisitor, though, I began to have fun.
A woman approached, asking the standard questions. When she inquired about his name, my improv-addled mind pushed me to blurt out, “Alistair”. Milton stifled a laugh and PGirl shot me a smirk. After the lady left, my wife asked, “What are you doing?”. I smiled back, “Just having a laugh!”.
A few moments later, another lady approached us with the name question. I replied, “Acadian Driftwood”. She didn’t bat an eye. Milton was having a hard time not busting up this time. We walked over to the grass across from the singing area to listen to the kids. Several more people and their dogs visited with us, but no one was asking his name. I was getting anxious. Finally, the next mark approached.
“What is your poodle’s name?”. I started running through a short list of ridiculous “A” names. Before I could settle on one, she cut me off with her next question. “Is it Coco?”. I choked back a laugh. Coco was a brilliant name. My voice quivering, I said. “No. His name is…”. I was having difficulty coming up with a clever name. “Coco” kept ringing in my ears. I gave up and gave in. “Asa.”, I said. “His name is Asa”. She walked away from us and Milton and I gave up our fun and games.
After a short walk from one of the entrances to the square of this community, I met up with PGirl, her assistant and a buddy of mine from The Unexpected Guests, who I’ll refer to as Milton F. Hunter. The parade of kids was absolutely adorable. They convened at the steps of one of the square’s buildings, sang some songs, marched to the amphitheater and sang some more. What happened as we waited for the parade to start was what I’d like to recount here.
As we waited on a sidewalk corner, many people stared at us. I thought maybe it was because of what we wore, that the rich folks could tell we weren’t money. PGirl had her work windbreaker on and I was slumming it in a pair of khaki cargos, track shoes and an oxford shirt. In L.A. I would’ve been mistaken for an incognito celebrity. In this place – a dogwalker.
But it wasn’t our clothes people were staring at. It was Asa. Our dog is a standard poodle who doesn’t wear his hair in any of the traditional poodle cuts. We usually get him short, cuts all around so he looks sort of like an Airedale. This often prompts people to look at him, wondering what breed he his. Our groomers give us shit for not asking for something fancier, but we like the way he looks. Several people approached us, saying things like, “I just have to ask, what kind of dog is he?” or “What a beautiful cinnamon boy!” (He’s apricot in color). The majority of him asked his name, which I readily revealed. After the 6th or 7th inquisitor, though, I began to have fun.
A woman approached, asking the standard questions. When she inquired about his name, my improv-addled mind pushed me to blurt out, “Alistair”. Milton stifled a laugh and PGirl shot me a smirk. After the lady left, my wife asked, “What are you doing?”. I smiled back, “Just having a laugh!”.
A few moments later, another lady approached us with the name question. I replied, “Acadian Driftwood”. She didn’t bat an eye. Milton was having a hard time not busting up this time. We walked over to the grass across from the singing area to listen to the kids. Several more people and their dogs visited with us, but no one was asking his name. I was getting anxious. Finally, the next mark approached.
“What is your poodle’s name?”. I started running through a short list of ridiculous “A” names. Before I could settle on one, she cut me off with her next question. “Is it Coco?”. I choked back a laugh. Coco was a brilliant name. My voice quivering, I said. “No. His name is…”. I was having difficulty coming up with a clever name. “Coco” kept ringing in my ears. I gave up and gave in. “Asa.”, I said. “His name is Asa”. She walked away from us and Milton and I gave up our fun and games.
