Frequently, long enough after sunset that quiet has descended in Grant Park, a man passes by our house with two dogs. One is a small mutt who pulls the man forward with his leash.
The other is a gigantic Great Dane who lumbers behind them, off-leash, inspecting trash containers and sometimes turning his gaze to me.
In that moment, I just presume he’s going to gallop toward me, knock me down, and eat my luscious throat. So far, he hasn’t.
But it’s true that dogs kind of scare me. Years ago, without warning, a client brought his very gayly groomed Labradoodle to his session.
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