Possession

Walking over the Cambie Street Bridge, mid-way through our evening walk, I spot two people and a dog approaching from the opposite direction.

As we close in on each other, I notice the oncoming canine carrying something orange in its mouth. “Frisbee.” I think to myself. As the distance between Elvis and I, and the couple and very pretty Golden Retriever lessens, I laugh out loud and can’t help addressing the retriever:

“You’re not stealing City property, are you?”

“Oh, no – it belongs to her, now.” Her young man answers for her – completely correct. Possession is nine tenths…

“We used to have one of those at home that we didn’t steal from the City, either.” I say for Elvis.

“She has four or five at home already.”

And with this last exchange our parties pass like ships in the night, the retriever with her ill-gotten booty steering far clear out of Elvis’ reach, anticipating that he might be after the large, day-glo orange plastic pylon that she is so daintily transporting in her mouth.