After our encounter with Ms. Thistle in Brunswick Park, Charlie and I continued on our way to Native Grounds Cafe. You remember Charlie, don't you? He appeared in a couple of previous posts. Small guy, very curious, cute in a Zach Galifianakis sort of way. He's a member of the Terrier Tribe of the Dog Nation.
Arriving at the cafe, I was disappointed to realize that the only outdoor table was occupied by a vendor waiting to harass customers. The vendor turned out to be Greg, one of many local people who find temp work promoting local home-made goods.
Greg wore an apron that read, Gourmet Wild Bird Food. You're expecting a joke at this point, no doubt, but no, those words were actually on the apron. In big letters.
"Genome," he called, a little too loud and with too much topspin. "Just the man I wanted to see this morning. How are you, my friend."
Now, there's probably no need to tell you what I was thinking when I heard the words "my friend." It's just as well, I really shouldn't repeat what I thought. The Genome social code doesn't allow such excesses.
Charlie began to express second thoughts about this aproned, chef-hatted human right away. He dug in his heels, struggled against his leash, and growled in a low, menacing way that left no doubt that he didn't like the setup, and neither should I.
"Hello, Greg," I said. "Wow, the humidity is off the scale today, isn’t it?" In truth, the humidity was nothing to complain about but I was grasping for something to say. After all, why would anyone say, 'Wow', unless circumstances had put them in a spot with little time to prepare?
"Ha!" he said and there was something dismissive in the way he said it, as though he cared little for the moisture. "Not a soul has come by since I got here. But now you're here so everything's alright."
"What’s in the cart?" I said and immediately realized it was a mistake. Showing interest in the poison isn't the best strategy when addressing a member of the Borge family.
"Oh, my friend," he said and I cringed at the resurgence of the 'my friend' motif. He reached into the cart and with a theatrical flourish, produced a bag of what I took to be birdseed.
The moment the bag appeared, Charlie changed his attitude. Where once he was hesitant and suspicious, he suddenly became curious and excited. No doubt, it was thoughts of the dog biscuits waiting inside the shop that changed his attitude.
"Greg," I said. "What is that?"
Charlie, was alternately placing his front paws on Greg's leg and then dropping back down to all fours to pirouette, is that the word, meaning turning round and round in tight circles?
His dancing got Greg's attention, of course. Everyone pays attention to Charlie when he dances.
"You are about to enjoy the finest bird food known to man," said Greg, holding a handful of seed down for Charlie's inspection.
"Greg," I said, "there are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don't know where to begin."
"The secret ingredients in this special blend are crushed pretzels and quinoa," he said to no one in particular. "But that's just me. What do you think little guy?" apparently directed to Charlie.
Charlie was not falling for it. He looked at the seed but nothing more. Instead, he looked at me with another raised eyebrow meaning, "What the hey?"
Now a Genome isn't intentionally offensive to anyone, not even a salesman attempting a cheap trick on innocent passersby. But my obligations to Charlie, an ambassador of his tribe, are just as important.
I inclined my head to the little guy and raised both eyebrows. It was my way of saying, "Charlie, you know that stuff isn't for us. Give it a miss, is my advice." Charlie got the message and backed off.
"Thank you, Greg," I said. "But Charlie and I have an appointment inside. I think Spring is there and I have a message for her from Ms. Thistle."
"But surely you will sample the..."
"The what?" I said. "Pigeon food?"
"Not pigeon food!" he said with a hint of wounded pride. "This is the finest bird food available. It's a culinary delight. Not only a taste sensation but it has an energy kick that will lift the mood. Try it."
"It's still bird food," I said and I felt great relief at finally being in the position of owning the talking point.
But no. Greg gasped and brought his hand to his chest in a gesture equally as dramatic as Jack's in that episode of Will & Grace.
"This food is imported from Thailand," he said. "They make animal food of the highest quality. They follow the same standards we use for human food."
"Sorry, Greg," I said. "Charlie insists that we get inside."
Charlie looked up as I extended a hand to open the door. His expression said, "It's about time. You spend too much time talking to people that I don't know."
I glanced back at Greg. I don't know why. I suppose I wanted to see how he was handling the disappointment. He threw his hands up in the air and loudly lamented, “I’ve dedicated my life to helping improve the lives of others, and you’re rejecting my offer like it’s yesterday’s news."
"Sorry, Greg," I said. "Can't be helped. Responsibilities and whatnot."
As soon as we entered the cafe, I knew I'd made the right decision. How did I know? Charlie of course. His body language left no doubt. The baristas saw him as soon as he crossed the threshold and his mood brightened even more. I wouldn't have guessed it possible.
"Hello, Charlie," they called. "Who's a good boy then?"
It was enough. He began wagging and wigging and making it clear that he was happy to be here. Everything else was forgotten. It was enough to make me forget Greg and Thistle. I was happy just to be in the presence of so much joy.
When the doggie biscuits appeared on the countertop, Charlie was enthralled. The wonder and excitement in his eyes convinced me that magic was involved. Doggie magic. You know, the more people I meet, the more I like Charlie.