Hey, It's Not My Life

Yes, it is. I guess I can't deny it any longer. I'm an everyday hero.

There's a dog that lives across the street from me who suffers at the chubby hands of a blonde three-year-old with narcissistic tendencies and the temper of a 40-year-old bank teller. He tortures Plum Pudding, a mid-size terrier whose real name I have yet to memorize, whenever the focus shifts away from his Tonka truck skills (which, I admit, are not bad.) He puts her in a head lock and starts running, or tries to run her over, or pulls on her beard. That's where I come in. I visit Plum Pudding when the little master is off terrorizing his preschool, and restore emotional health to a good-tempered dog in a bad situation.

When I'm not visiting Plum Pudding, I'm usually off at the Armenian market, letting people cut in line at the deli counter. I smile when the woman who has been in the produce aisle until ten seconds ago pretends that she has been waiting for hours, and smile when she pretends that she does not speak English. I know her game, but I'm not going to play it.

When I return from the Armenian market, I check on Plum Pudding again. My nameless blonde neighbors appear to be feeding her, so I return home satisfied.

There are usually no thank yous, no medals, no back rubs, but I keep going. That's just what a hero does.