Sometimes I just love New England. There's a certain, shall we say, non-sentimental, way of expressing love here that makes my heart tingle.
This morning brought me back to the frigid waterfront, though today the sun shone brightly and the ocean was a deep beautiful blue. But it was still as cold as a seagull's tailfeather.
On the path that weaves directly next to the water, I came across a strapping man in his 70s, walking two happy looking cappucino-colored, medium sized dogs--just the kind of dog I've had a yen for lately. So, as dog people do, I stopped and talked.
"Hi! What kind of dogs are those?"
He stopped, and turned to me. With a stone face and not a hint of sparkle in his eyes under that tweed Irish scally cap, he said in a strong Boston accent, "Pains in the asses."
What's a girl to do but laugh out loud?
He sought them out specifically, he said. You can't find them in petshopts. They are Tibetan mountain dogs, he said, bred by the Dalai Lama himself to have "hearts of love."
Bred by the Dalai Lama himself to have hearts of love, and still, they're pains in the asses?
I can relate.