Under a tree at the side of River Road where it meets Old Highway 24, in front of one of the

cluster of houses, church and meeting hall that comprise the 'downtown' of Horning's Mills, is standing a little freckle-faced girl with her dog and a crayon written sign in her hand which she waves at my car. I can see it was once taped, probably to the tree, but now taken down and being wielded for stronger effect.

I can't read it as I pass but in my rear view I see her watching me with shoulders slumped.

OK. I do a 'U' and pull up beside her. The sign reads, "Meet a Dog. 60¢."

The "60¢" is crossed out and "50¢" is written below in Magic Marker. It's also crossed out and "10¢" is scrawled at the bottom in pencil.

She and the dog, a lovely tan Setter, look at me expectantly. "You've lowered your prices." I say.

"Yeah," she answers. "Now it's basically free."

As I get out the dog barks and pulls on the leash. Being met is clearly not one of its priorities. "Quiet, Hickory," she tries to calm the dog who will have none of me. I open my hand and wait patiently for it to sniff.

"There isn't much traffic along River Road." I say to make conversation while the dog goes through its standoffish routine.

"No," she says. "How many customers have you had?"

"You're the first."

Eventually Hickory realizes I won't be put off and tentatively sniffs my hand. There, we've met.

"Is this to help the dog become familiar with people?"

"No. She just needs to get out."

"I see. Well, thank you for letting me meet your dog." I fumble in my pockets for a few coins and say my goodbyes to the girl and her dog.

That evening, in Toronto for a meeting, while I wait for the light under the Gardner at Spadina, a scurvy lad in shoddy clothes with a practiced expression of pain caroms between the double row of cars holding a sign that says, "Evicted. Looking for Work."

My seat belt hinders me from searching my pockets, and I shake my head 'no' as he looks at me hungrily,

then passes.

That night, hurrying along darkened back alleys to reach my car, I finger the all-purpose tool in my pocket. I remember as a young man living in New York where switchblades and stilettos were illegal and those smuggled by friends returning from Europe were of poor quality, I carried a lock knife purchased specifically for its ease of opening, and which I'd practiced drawing in one swift motion the way a gunfighter would

It was something not displayed or talked about, but on the street I would see others with hand in pocket, walking swiftly, head down, minding one's own business.