Not everyone wants to socialize with a slop-hound

“He’s wet!” a lady squealed.
“She,” I corrected.
At least it wasn’t swamp water. My dog had just drank from her water-dish. Clean water = toxic.
We were at the weekly Wegmans “Cruze-night” car show.
Wegmans is one of my supermarkets. Its head-honcho is Danny Wegman, a car-guy.
He used to street-race a 454 Chevelle. Now he owns Ferraris.
Cruze-night attracts many hotrods and performance cars.
My widower friend Jim LePore (“luh-POOR”) shows his recent Camaro SS.
The Canandaigua (“cannon-DAY-gwuh”) Wegmans is on swampland at the north end of Canandaigua lake.
The part Wegmans is on has been dried out, but lagoons and ponds are around.
“How come you keep dragging me over to this pond?” I asked my dog.
Into the mire, hunting for frogs.
Part of the land surrounding the pond was covered by netting of some sort, and I fell in a hidden pothole.
I almost tumbled into the pond. A guy helped me up while I held the dog’s leash.
That’s all I need, a runaway dog in the bullrushes.
By now my dog was covered with swamp water.
“She’s been swimming!” people said.
The usual’55-’57 Chevys were there, and Big-Block crate-motors in everything.
Near the pond I found a yellow ’38 Buick taxi powered by a souped-up Chevy SmallBlock.
It’s license-plate surround said “Ass, gas or grass; nobody rides free.” I used to say that driving bus: “Ass, gas, grass or pass; nobody rides free.”
We found an actual 1964 4-4-2 Oldsmobile, the first 4-4-2; almost dainty.
Also a hot-rodded ’39 Ford five-window coupe, one of the prettiest cars ever made.
“And Ford didn’t have a styling section,” I said.
A bone-stock ’51 Chevy two-door sedan drove in.
“’51,” I said. The owner smiled and agreed.
No doubt most of those in attendance were post ’51.
I’m a 1944 model.
“There goes Louie,” said the aging owner of a ’57 Fuelly. He said his car was no longer fuel-injection — he had to give up — but it still had “fuel-injection” on the fenders.
“Guess we should go home,” he said to his wife.
We left not long after that; had been there perhaps an hour.
I remembered the dog’s water-dish this time, but not many wanted to greet the big slop-hound.

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s twelve, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.