Sunday, August 17, 2:48 am, Union streetThere's nothing like waking up for Sunday Brunch with a black eye. The only thing better is telling people that you got it from your dog, the Boxer, whose face you fell into at 3 o'clock in the morning.
See, everyone's heard that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. And everyone (trust me, I've heard them all) tells you that people in small New York City apartments shouldn't own big dogs. But the reasons they cite (exercise, busy schedules, excessive summer heat) usually preclude your dog suddenly becoming a hazardous object.
Having moved close to a giant park, invested in an oval-oscillating fan (not just side-to-side, but up-and-down), and added ice cubes to Myla's water bowl, I've so far managed to maintain Big-Dog-Big-City Harmony. The problem has come with the position of the animal's large, sprawled body relative to this particular woman's slightly-unsteady, heel-clad feet. When you collide, which is inevitable, there's nowhere to fall but into an exposed-brick wall or onto them (perhaps being so lucky as to smash your eyebrow straight into their knuckle head).
