I am walking my greyhound, Ruby. We come upon another dog (a pup) and owner. We do the obligatory hello and sniff (Me the hello, Ruby the sniff).
“Your dog is skinny,” says the owner, a keenly observant boy in his late teens.
“Yes, she is skinny,” I agree.
“Why? Why is she so skinny?” He seems affronted.
“She’s a picky eater.”
“I guess!” he responds. “She looks emaciated. Like you just rescued her from a bad owner.”
“Nope. She’s just skinny,” I say, wondering if I should feel defensive.
“What kind of dog is yours?” I ask, keen to change the subject.
“Great Dane,” he says.
“Cute,” I say sincerely, admiring the pup.
“What kind of dog is THAT?” he asks about Ruby. I can tell he doubts she has enough body fat to even qualify as a dog.
“A greyhound?!” he replies. “Are they ALL that skinny?” He shakes his head in disbelief.
“They’re all pretty skinny,” I share. “But she’s exceptionally skinny.”
“I guess!” he says.
It’s time to move on. As we walk our separate ways, he shouts out: “Good luck getting some food on her!” By his tone, I can tell he’s not holding out much hope.
“Thanks,” I shout back, unsure if it’s an appropriate response.
I imagine he is home right now on his computer - plump great dane pup at his feet - googling “greyhound” and feeling just a touch superior. And that's ok, because I'm home at my computer, skinny greyhound by my side, feeling a touch superior too.