Another Kershaw foray

(Sorry readers. I can’t put the picture on here due to insanity from PhotoBucket, my usual image-source. I’m trying to set up my own domain to escape PhotoBucket.)

“You keep looking at my dog, and I might have to come up there,” I shouted.
I was at Canandaigua’s Kershaw Park for my weekly dog walk with Killian. We were passing “The Twisted Rail,” the old Muar House at the north end of the lake.
“Sure,” they said. I slowly walked up the long handicap ramp toward them, Killian leading.
“Oh, what a pretty dog,” they said. “We’re here for our weekly yoga and beer. There’s the yoga-pad.”
I looked over the railing and there indeed was the rolled-up yoga-pad.
“I just took a picture from that fishing-dock across the outlet, and you were in it. I just wanna make sure it’s okay with you before I text it to my friend in VA, who lives up here, and occasionally walks her dog with me.”
“As long as she doesn’t fly it all over Facebook.”
“That’s why I asked. She won’t; and I protect my ladies. I was like that when I drove RTS bus. Nobody messes with my ladies.
“Thanks for asking,” one said. “Many don’t.”
“Sniff-snort!” Nuzzle-nuzzle. “You’re forgetting me!”
“Along those lines, what if I blog this? I’d lede with that picture. I don’t know that this is blog-material, but I know how things are. The muse never shuts up.”
“All they’re gonna see is my back,” the pretty one said. “So it’s okay with me.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Blog it, blog it, blog it,” said pretty one.
“What makes it blogable,” I said; “is three meet-and-greets within my first five minutes of getting here. And many more thereafter, including you guys.”
Before my wife died, and I wouldna said anything — I’d have walked past.
Hilda Q. Walton, my next-door neighbor during childhood, also my Sunday-School Superintendent, is spinning in her grave. Along with my parents, also hyper-religious like Hilda. Faire Hilda convinced me all men, including me, were evil.
I don’t need to go into that again; I’ve already blogged it too many times.
Kershaw Park is reversing my dreadful childhood; 65+ years late. My silly Killian gives me an opening, but I get by without Killian.

• My new dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s nine, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, a very lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. — Killian was fine. He’s my fifth 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 heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that over 12 years ago.
• “Q” stands for “Quincy,” although I’ve also been told it stands for “qulip;” something to do with The Three Stooges.