St. Mark's Place on a sunny Saturday
This drippy, gray Monday was made a little more palatable by memories of a weekend crowded with fun.
There was musical improv, talks on park benches, dinner, drinks, karaoke, church, a movie, and a coffee date with an old friend.
But my weekend also featured…
(wait for it)…
The annual Dachshund Spring Fiesta was on Saturday in Washington Square Park (more pictures forthcoming, don’t you worry) so I gathered there with SBG and Mr. SBG to ogle, adore, and dote upon all the dachshunds in attendance.
Some wore costumes, most went au naturale; some were slight, some were stout; some had wiry coats while others had shaggy beards; several rode in carriages, others strolled in on their own four feet, and still others were carried in the arms of protective owners. One dachshund became enraged at a skateboard; another stared down a French Bulldog, another lounged by a fountain and refused to socialize.
Every so often one dachshund would start barking, setting off a chain reaction with his surrounding canines so that a chorus of dachshund yips would rise up – nearly (but not quite) drowning out the various street musicians playing on the periphery.
After spending an hour or so in the presence of all this wiener dog cuteness, we decided to go eat hot dogs.
But of course.
A short and sunny walk down St. Mark’s Place took us to Crif Dogs, home of a ‘secret’ speakeasy, but also some seriously good hot dogs. Almost as good as a Fenway Frank. (Almost, I said.)
As long as we’re talking hot dogs, and as long as it’s still National Poetry Month, how ‘bout we let Mr. Shel Silverstein tie the two together? Please to enjoy:
by Shel Silverstein
I have a hot dog for a pet,
The only kind my folks would let
He does smell sort of bad
He absolutely never gets
The sofa wet.
We have a butcher for a vet,
The strangest vet you ever met.
Guess we're the weirdest family yet,
To have a hot dog for a pet.