Full Moon

Last Friday, I went over to a friend's place in the South End for drinks and several rounds of Apples to Apples (an incredible game- play it at once if you haven’t already). We eventually headed out for the evening, and as we were walking toward the car, a dog- it appeared to be some breed of Pointer- came trotting towards us. The dog was clad in a beige cashmere sweater and leather collar, but sported no tags, leash, or owner. As I’d had my fill of exchanges with unfamiliar creatures in the South End, I was content to just keep moving. But my friend Anna felt concern for the homeless-albeit handsomely dressed- hound. She adoringly removed the scarf from her neck and wrapped it around the dog’s. Just as she did so, he began inching away, and then took off down the block. Once he’d reached a safe distance, he stopped to peer back at us. I half expected him to pull out a roll of Mentos and for an overhead voice to declare it the freshmaker, but he simply wagged his tail and continued on. I imagine he’d pulled a similar stunt earlier that day, hence the cashmere. I only hope that whoever it was that had offered up their sweater to the manipulative mutt wasn’t the same person whose coat we unintentionally stole later that evening. After giving up hope on the dog ever returning, we ventured over to Cambridge. One of the perks of living in a college town is the house parties; the downside is that cops always arrive to break them up. I’d almost forgotten this when three of them showed up and started barking orders at everyone. After a series of not-so-pleasant police encounters (one involving a dumpster, two involving taxi drivers, and yet another, an impromptu beach party), I’ve basically been conditioned to run whenever I see anyone in uniform. And that’s exactly what I did. I had enough sense to grab my coat first; not enough, however, to let anyone I was with know that I was bolting. I ran all the way home and passed out on impact. The next morning, I woke up to a slew of missed calls and texts inquiring about where the hell I’d gone. And in the mix was one painfully sweet message from Anna that read, "don't worry, we have your coat." As I stared guiltily at my actual coat, slumped over the side of my desk, I remembered that it had started snowing while I was running home. So thanks to my drink-n-ditch behavior, some poor girl will likely end up with strep throat. At least I can rest at ease knowing that somewhere on the other side of town, a clever canine won't.