The Crooked Man

Christmas morning began with me realizing I has fallen asleep on my sofa last night watching television. It was an early decent into slumber - somewhere before George Bailey even realized it really is a wonderful life.

I then sat on the floor with Saffron and let her examine her stocking. Low and behold, Santa had left a rawhide bone in there for her! She snubbed it and ate a snack that my mom had gotten her for Christmas. Trumped once again by Jo-Ann!

I called my mom and wished her a Merry Christmas and then took Saffron for a long walk. On our way back home I saw a little old man, bent over at the waist, placing something in the backseat of a car.

"Merry Christmas," I said.

He looked at me with a smile. And although he was no longer putting things in the back of the car he was still bent over. I realized time and age had made his spine crooked.

"Merry Christmas, honey," he replied.

I have an unwritten rule about men calling me names like "honey" and "sweetheart." If they're over the age of about 70, then it's perfectly fine and a term of endearment. If they're younger, it's patronizing and completely unacceptable. Crooked Man can call me "honey" all he wants and I will never mind.

He looked at Saffron and his eyes danced a moment.

"I had a dog like that once," he told me. "Over 60 years ago now."

"You can pet her if you want to; she's very sweet."

He pet Saffron with wrinkled, old hands that turned red from the cold air. I wondered if he owned gloves and forgot to put them on, or if he needed a pair.

"How old is she?" he asked and I told him she was 13.

"Thirteen," he reflected. "Time goes so fast. I forgot how soft their hair can be."

"She's very soft," I said, unsure of what to say. "We better get going. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," he responded and went back to whatever he was doing in the car.

And so we walked away from the Crooked Man and made our way back home, where Saffron walked right past her new rawhide. Oh well.