Dear little old man at the Durham Farmers Market:
You are an old man, quite obviously cranky and set in your ways, and used to just saying whatever the hell pops into your mind. I suppose age could excuse this, but I strongly suspect you were like that before the years added up, and the walker was needed. I suspect it, but I’m not sure – perhaps before the years passed you were a sweet and gentle fellow, friend to all, polite to a fault. That doubtfulness is the only thing that kept me from whacking you with my purse on Friday afternoon at the market.
You see, I personally don’t think it’s polite to walk up to a stranger and say “Jeez, look at the mug on that dog – that’s one ugly face. Face only a mother could love, huh?”.
Because, no – no, I don’t think she’s ugly. I don’t think her face is ugly, and she is, in fact, loved by a great many people. More, perhaps, than could love a cranky old coot like you.
I bit my tongue when you said it – ignored you, in fact. Just let it slide, walked right past you. Sean was shocked – he said he was surprised I didn’t ‘kick the crutches out from under you’.
Like I said, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, old man. But my little dog is just as old as you – older, probably, in dog years. I see nothing but beauty in her face, and the fact that you can’t see it? Your loss, I suppose.
I still wish I’d hit you with my purse, though.