I saw the man first. He rode his wheelchair in the street the way people do when there aren’t adequate curb cuts in the neighborhood. His state-of-the-art wheelchair looked like an elliptical machine, and he sat in its midst like Captain Kirk in his captain’s chair.
I put his age at close to 70. He wore his hair in a crew cut, and that, along with his horn rimmed glasses, evoked another era.
He rolled along the street, and eventually he moved into my full view – at which point I realized he was walking a dog. The dog he walked, however, was not the dog I would have imagined for this large, rectangular man. Rather, moving with the perkiest trot imaginable in front of the wheelchair on a nearly taut leash pranced a toffee-colored West Highland Terrier.
If ever a gait could communicate sheer delight in being alive it was this dog’s. Watching them together, I felt happy.