eye of the beholder

There’s a man across the green who looks exceedingly glum.  He emerges from his house, morning and evening, and walks across the lawn in an unfailing path of grumpiness.  Head down, collar up.  A look that says ‘I am not here.  Do not speak to me, please.’

But beside him, there is a dog:  small and stout and white, with one brown ear and a ringed eye.  The dog looks as happy as the man looks sour.

Once, just once, I saw the dog out without his human.  Doggie looked sore and tired, not his usual happy self at all. But then, the man came into view.  Doggie leapt up, scurried across the lawn and waggled his tail to the point of exhaustion.

I suspect the truth is this: The dog sees better than I do.
There is a fine and beautiful man who lives across the way, and the arrangement of his face and collar have nothing to do with it at all.

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