My friend Pete is a retired labor lawyer who lives on the Upper West Side in Manhattan. Since his wife, Madelyn, is much younger and still holds down a full-time job, Pete has gotten in the habit of turning to his dog, Max, for conversation. Last Sunday morning they were walking up towards the ball fields in Central Park (where dogs are allowed to mix and mingle off-leash until 9 a.m.) when they came across several dozen raggedy homeless people still asleep in front of the Delecort Theater (and subsequently learned what Sen. Larry Craig, John Edwards, John McCain and Bill Clinton have in common). (More)

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My friend Pete is a retired labor lawyer who lives in Manhattan. Since his wife, Madelyn, is much younger and still working, Pete has only his Golden Retriever-Lab mix to talk with. Today they are visiting the dog park where West Seventy-second Street meets the Hudson River. Pete is reading the New York Times sports section. Max is under the bench, pretending to be asleep.“

“Max, I think they should pardon Michael Vick, don’t you? It says here in the paper that a lot of people think he’s guilty only of hanging out with the wrong crowd. His father says he’s a natural dog lover, says Michael is a good-hearted person who couldn’t bring himself to shake off a bunch of freeloading friends and they got him into dogfighting.”

Max scratches a load of dirt into Pete’s Birkenstocks. (More)

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