Today was Marathon Sunday in New York City, and we live right next to the 59th Street Bridge, which means that we are in el primo location to see all the runners enter NYC at Mile 20 or so (I could be wildly off on that, I am sure) so what this meant for me, today, is that Himself and I had to get as many Pancake-walks in as we possibly could before the hoards of people start gathering to cheer for the poor souls who are actually electing to run 26 miles on a beautiful Sunday when they could be tucking in to their bagels & cream cheese or clinking their Bloody Marys somewhere in Tribeca while debating Frank Rich’s OpEd column. But no, instead, they’re wrecking their bodies. After the Kenyans pass through, my God, all I can think of when I see the stragglers is that they need a hot bath and some soup.
Himself took Pancake out at about 6:30am or so, since Princess was unaware of Daylight Savings Time. By 8am, she was barking at me like mad so I threw on some clothes and off we went. “You better poop, Pancake!” I said to her as we made our way up 60th Street. She did her usual combination of lurching forward and meandering into a street-full of oncoming traffic while looking behind me to make sure I was still there (uh, where else would I be? She could feel the tug of me at the other end of the leash, right?) And while all this was going on I was carrying on a spirited early-morning cell phone conversation with Jeanne about ongoing family dynamics that was interrupted when we hit – I kid you not – a two-story wall of of hay on 60th street, being protected by two New York City cops. They looked pretty tough, all right, until they caught sight of La Cake.
Before I knew it, Pancake had jumped up on the higher stack of hay so the cops could adequately admire and pet her. And they did, whipping out their cell phones and taking pictures of her while she posed with a little strand of straw in her mouth, looking like Judy Garland in one of her Mickey Rooney-produced barn shows. Seriously, all she needed was a gingham sweater and braids.
It wasn’t long before the first cop was telling me that he has a Pomeranian. “What’s her name?” I asked. “Fluh de lis,” he answered. “My wife calls her ‘Fluh’ for short. It means flowuh.”
I loved this guy immediately and asked him and his partner what the hay was all about. “Oh,” said the first one, “It’s for the wheelchair runners. They enter Manhattan from this part of the Queensboro Bridge.”
“Yeah,” the other amplified. “The hay is here so they don’t crash as they come down the ramp.”