I live on 123 Any Street, Anytown, Canada and it’s nice. On weekends neighbors mow the lawn, walk the dog, carpool the kids to hockey. Slices of life played out on the canvas of being, scenes that soothe the badgered soul. Of course not every montage is a Rockwellian masterpiece. There's Hank, the podiatrist next door who doesn’t mow his lawn, but what can you do? At least I don’t have to pick up after my dog when he goes there. Oy, the joys of Suburbia! “Boring,” according to my old school friend, Lenny the Lizard, who still lives with his Mom. “Yes indeed,” I reply. “And for that I am blessed.” Last year someone tossed through a Molotov cocktail through my neighbor Arky’s front window. But I don’t have to worry about that anymore, Arky’s now safely away in jail and his house was auctioned off by the bank. Just another slice of life, the B side. All to say, I’d miss out on this if I didn’t have a dog. Without my mutt, I’d never walk the potholed streets of my hood, I’d lose out on the magnificence of the mundane - the laundry on the clothesline flapping in the wind, the skunk family living under Hank's porch, the tanned and toned bod of Carly the fitness instructor copping rays on her balcony. It’s about time she invited me in for coffee. And for that dear DJ, my Welsh terrier with weak bowels and a special spot on Hank’s unmown lawn, I remain eternally grateful. Together we walketh through the valley of Suburbia and bask in all its glory. Surely goodness and beauty shall follow me all through my days in the neighborhood, for my dog is my guide and I shall not want.
