Up early, Clyde walks Dixie Dawg and me down Lenox Road.
Despite the traffic, the cool air smells sweet. Bundled in our sweatshirts and hoods and gloves, we look like two Unabombers walking their chubby watchdog.
Watching the cars whiz past, I catch the expressions of the drivers: intent, stressed, worried. I laugh and pound Clyde on the back.
“We live it every day, so we don’t see it,” I say. “But most of these people would give their eye teeth for our lives: to have time to walk the dog every morning, to spend the day in a house they love with someone they love.”
Commuters rush past. From their perspective, a fat little hooded man strides down the sidewalk, arms wide, laughing out loud.
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