Sunday shorts: The Curmudgeon

Every day between 9:50 and 10:15 a.m., an older man shuffles past my window, rain or shine. On warmer days, he wears a green jacket with a tan collar, black or brown slacks, and black walking shoes. On colder days, it's a blue jacket with navy slacks, a grey beanie and charcoal winter boots with a quilted exterior. His arms are always stretched behind his back, hands interlocked. He takes small steps in his forward-slanted posture and slowly turns his head to survey what’s around him.

He is the neighbourhood curmudgeon, known to every dog owner in the twelve-block radius. He hates dogs.

He shakes his head when he spots one of us walking our quadrupedal chums, then looks to his left and right and crosses the street in avoidance. If encountered in one of the adjacent parks, he theatrically raises his arms in mock prayer, then moves in the opposite direction.

I must have seen him walking around for years but didn’t take any notice. With the arrival of a puppy, though, the everyday gets amplified. What lies on the sidewalk is attractive to the mouthing pup but of concern to me. Similarly, the faces of those scared of dogs become familiar in time, and condition me to perform a series of actions to assure them of their safety: I reign in the leash, step aside as they pass, holding Henry by his collar as he sits quietly. A quick nod is exchanged as they pass us.

That doesn’t suit our curmudgeon.

My only encounter with him was last fall, when I took Henry to a short trail nearby and returned through the park lined with benches in an alley of lovely red maples. I chose a spot nestled between the trees to take in the views of the river across and pop in my headphones to listen to a meditation. Henry perched next to me, admiring the view as I tucked his leash behind us. We were two happy souls, starting our day in the fresh autumn air, encircled by fall scents and dancing leaves.

I sensed a presence and slowly opened my eyes to see an index finger vigorously wagging two inches from my face. It belonged to a shrunken figure that I couldn't clearly see with the sunlight shining directly on us. I removed the headphones and heard … not English, or any familiar language that my well-trained linguistic ear could pick up. It was either a rare regional southern European accent or some speaking impairment that made deciphering the origin impossible.

Henry was on guard; his ears were on alert. The curmudgeon pointed to Henry, me, and the bench. I got up, and Henry followed. "Do you want to sit down here?" The wagging and indiscernible accusations kept flowing. "You don't want Henry to sit on it? He's much cleaner than the bench if that's what you're worried about."

But there was no point in furthering the exchange, so I stood there waiting for him to decide whether he was going to sit or continue administering the application of bylaws that did not exist. Contrary to the meditation encouraging calmness and equanimity, my patience ran thin. I pulled Henry toward the damp grounds under a tree, refusing to leave the view but allowing the old man to consider sitting down and perhaps taking in the view meters away from us.

He walked on, shaking his head and turning around to look at us while shouting something that may as well have been bellowed into the void as my headphones remained in. Henry was comfortable resting beside me, busying himself with the leaves.

At an impromptu encounter with some neighbours at the park, the subject of the "nasty old man" came up. He'd apparently been on a tour of confrontations in the neighbourhood, snarling at anyone walking a dog. We knew nothing about him - not even where he lived, although the leading assumption is a care home nearby. We exchanged some theories to understand his behaviour. Perhaps he was bit by a dog during his childhood, or his pet had recently passed away, and he'd misdirected his grief. Maybe it was worse. Did he experience an unfathomable loss that has soured him, robbing him of seeking or seeing joy in the world?

"Or maybe he's just an asshole," offered up an exacerbated neighbour, "with no sad story."

I smile and look into the eyes of the curmudgeon whenever we encounter him. He may be a crank without a cause, but I want him to speak to me again so I can puzzle out the language and see if some understanding may be reached. I also want him to know that his antics don't affect me; I will continue to tread the same paths and sidewalks he trudges and imagine all kinds of stories about him to stay curious and find amusement in his grumbles.