Tunneled Vision

Once in a while we see something that elates us so much that we never want that image to fade.  A permanent photograph in our mind, a snapshot to capture the time.  Today I was able to experience that feeling.  Of all the things that were occurring around me my body and mind fully focused on only one thing that was happening; tunneled vision.

There was a man and his dog.  They were riding the subway together.  A dapper older man dressed properly in tan slacks and a navy blazer.  Shoes and belt coordinating; tie and oxford shirt, a perfect match.  The most gorgeous German Shepherd I have ever seen; the shiniest black of coats worn by solid light brown eyes and a drippy leathery nose.  Of all the lovely details, each storybook perfect, my focus was less on the little and more on the large- the interaction between a man and his dog.  The man sitting down with his dogs body patiently parked underneath the seat still sitting tall with his head rested upon the mans left thigh, the mans left hand softly placed upon his dogs head; appearing as if the head of the dog grew from the mans lap, an extension of the mans own body.  They both looked comfortably normal as if they were in their living room watching television, and not in a crowded subway during the morning rush-hour.  They both sat, they both stared, neither seemed to blink.  His leathery nose dripped, no one seemed to mind.  I assumed he had a cold and his man was taking him to the veterinarian.  Man caring for his dog.  Dog finding comfort in his man.

Then the subway came to a stop at 23rd street.  The dog stood up first, then the man.

Dog lead his man off the subway safely into the open world, for he was his man's eyes.