One Tuesday morning, coming my way on the very narrow and overgrown lane was a man I recognized with his dog. I had often seen him walking the little gray terrier on the river path when I was out jogging. The dog has never shown the least bit of interest in me, but the man and I always exchange hellos. Today’s encounter, though, was different—I was walking my two dogs, and their presence turned our usual encounter into an unknown. I am never certain how another animal will react to my dogs, or they to it, and I’ve learned to be wary.
I gripped the lead tighter and held it so that the dogs and double leash were all on my right; if the dogs pulled, they would be pulling away from me, not around my back or between my legs or—worst of all—one on either side, catching me in the middle and knocking my legs out from under me. One has to think about the best way to lose control, the best angle for a fall. The terrier might be aggressive with other dogs. You’d expect a small dog to be prudent around larger ones, but for all I knew, this one might be a foolhardy hothead.
The man and his dog came on, the dog unleashed, as usual. It trailed behind its owner, stopping every few steps to sniff one thing or another. Then the little terrier saw us, waiting. No wide berth was possible in that narrow lane, overhung with chestnut trees and oaks. But the dog kept to the far side of the man, in the shadow, so to speak, though the day was cloudy. Safely past us, he stopped.
The man had recognized me and slowed to say hello. My two dogs, ignoring the terrier, stretched out their necks in a friendly hello, and the man spoke to them, his voice changing, becoming softer and slower, more gentle. He was a slight but sturdy man, neither large nor small, heavy nor light, with grizzled hair and beard. Like his dog, I thought, except friendlier. His dog watched from beyond our little knot of two people and two dogs.
The man looked toward his pet and asked, “Won’t you come say hello?” The dog would not, and so the man stroked the noses of my two dogs, then made to set off.
“What are you listening too?” I blurted. Because I had become aware of music emanating from the man’s smartphone. Instruments, a voice, energy and emotion, but nothing overboard—no wailing or ranting.
The man looked down for an instant. “Pavarotti,” he said.
“I mean what aria?”
“All,” he said. “One after another. Whatever they play. His collected works.”
I was nodding.
“They are all wonderful,” he added.
I didn’t know the first thing about opera, but I nodded in agreement—not because I thought so, too, but because I had no reason not to think so. I sighed, smiled, said goodbye, and carried on with my dogs, reflecting how fine it is, when you know nothing, to realize it means you know nothing to the contrary—and isn’t it nice to let down your guard? I might even have believed that Pavarotti really did sound better on a Tuesday.
