The Elevator Pitch

Not Brian, but my father's dog Kara, a resident of Arizona.

Every weekday morning, I walk a dog.  I trot two short blocks and two long, am buzzed in and receive the handoff of one 70 lb black Spitz named Brian.    The family is always at home, I’m expected at 7am , and frequently one of my greeters is Namu, a two-year-old just beginning a diligent exploration of language, relationships and etiquette.  We carry on thirty-second discussions about  his wardrobe,  breakfast, and other nonsensibles that my adult ear can’t quite sync to.   The timing is good for both of us, a few precious seconds before the elevator starts to beep at being left open so long.
Namu is at the age where  part of his pitch includes pulling a shirt up or pants down – a release of skin that is important punctuation.   Today’s reveal was rather delicately  performed: striped cargo shorts were inched up to reveal a treasured Band-Aid slung across his knee.  Jumping up and down is another venue, not performed to channel ideas and action, but filter excitement at seeing a grown-up who’s relatively unknown but smiles and talks to him.
We moved forward in our relationship recently, when he asked me where my parents lived. Ah, verbal sophistication is starting to set in; queries are next, full sentences imminent.  I couldn’t answer succinctly – I couldn’t answer at all: the elevator started to close and I had thought we’d finished the conversation. I was left alone with Brian, heading four flights down, charmed and intrigued. If Namu had been looking for work, I would’ve hired him.

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