Of Dogs and Dropped Blueberries

I’m in Manhattan in a coffee joint on the corner of Lexington Avenue and Fortieth Street. My guide dog Caitlyn is curled at my feet beneath our table. She’s a yellow Labrador and like my three prior guides she flicks her tongue like an ant eater, looking for crumbs and not ants—though it’s entirely possible she’d eat an ant if it presented itself. My second guide dog Vidal once ate a bee. He grabbed it out of the air. He suffered no apparent consequences. Since every guide dog is different I should say that Caitlyn is a lady and she’d never snatch a bee. The girl has manners. Muffin bits are another matter. Dropped blueberries are fair game.

What’s fair game for me? I wonder. What is the equivalent of found food in a human’s life?

Eavesdropping of course. A man seated three tables over just said to someone via cellphone: “I told you not to sell the thing!”

One wonders what “the thing” could be.

This is an obvious pleasure.

My blueberry.