Hot dog!
His first molar cut through a week ago. He'll be 18 months in two weeks. Nearly a man.
It is time.
``Where are you taking him?'' his mother asks.
``Hot Dog Heaven,'' I say.
His first dog.
``Do you have to?'' she says.
``Yes.''
``Hot dogs are yuck.''
``Hot dogs are heavenly,'' I say. ``And one should never stand between a father and son and two hot dogs.''
We're veteran combatants in the hot dog wars, she and I. We know each others' weaknesses.
She backs off. She offers a little parting wisdom: ``They're the No. 1 choking hazard. You have to cut it up into pieces.''
I grab my wallet. He grabs his binkie. We're out the door.
Minutes later, we're strutting down Lark Street, just two guys on the loose on a perfect day. It's lunch time. People in colorful spring clothes spill out of buildings like gum balls. A hot dog would be perfect about now.
I turn to him.
``Want a dog?''
``Woof,'' he responds.
``Not that kind of dog,'' I say. In the world of hot dog consumption, he's still green, an amateur. But not for long.
We walk through the cavernous entrance of Hot Dog Heaven and set up perch on a stool at the counter, he on my lap.
``One 'Lil Pup plain and one Big Dog with the works,'' I say to the cook by the grill. ``And some fries and a Coke.''
We settle in. We take in the smell of grilling dogs. On a street that has hipper-than-thou tendencies, Hot Dog Heaven is homespun and delightfully uncomplicated.
The other stools are filling with construction guys, a business-executive type and a couple Lark Street lollygaggers like ourselves.
The food arrives. I hand him his. He's never seen one before. He grabs it, both hands. He inspects it from all angles. He's got a confused look on his face. He's probably wondering where its wheels are.
I break off a piece for him and he works it over with his new molar.
``Ummmm,'' he says.
``Hot dogs,'' I say.
``Woof,'' he says.
Exactly.
We woof it all down. Hot Dog Heaven gives good dog. We get a piece of apple pie to go and share it out on a stoop. It all costs $8.05.
A half-hour later he's in his crib, fast asleep, the sleep of the just.
``He loves hot dogs,'' I whisper to his mother. (This may or may not mean anything. It was only two days before when he tried to eat a tulip.)
Hot Dog Heaven has other foods, too -- sandwiches, soups, even breakfast. It's all tasty.
But nothing beats a dog.
Woof!
It is time.
``Where are you taking him?'' his mother asks.
``Hot Dog Heaven,'' I say.
His first dog.
``Do you have to?'' she says.
``Yes.''
``Hot dogs are yuck.''
``Hot dogs are heavenly,'' I say. ``And one should never stand between a father and son and two hot dogs.''
We're veteran combatants in the hot dog wars, she and I. We know each others' weaknesses.
She backs off. She offers a little parting wisdom: ``They're the No. 1 choking hazard. You have to cut it up into pieces.''
I grab my wallet. He grabs his binkie. We're out the door.
Minutes later, we're strutting down Lark Street, just two guys on the loose on a perfect day. It's lunch time. People in colorful spring clothes spill out of buildings like gum balls. A hot dog would be perfect about now.
I turn to him.
``Want a dog?''
``Woof,'' he responds.
``Not that kind of dog,'' I say. In the world of hot dog consumption, he's still green, an amateur. But not for long.
We walk through the cavernous entrance of Hot Dog Heaven and set up perch on a stool at the counter, he on my lap.
``One 'Lil Pup plain and one Big Dog with the works,'' I say to the cook by the grill. ``And some fries and a Coke.''
We settle in. We take in the smell of grilling dogs. On a street that has hipper-than-thou tendencies, Hot Dog Heaven is homespun and delightfully uncomplicated.
The other stools are filling with construction guys, a business-executive type and a couple Lark Street lollygaggers like ourselves.
The food arrives. I hand him his. He's never seen one before. He grabs it, both hands. He inspects it from all angles. He's got a confused look on his face. He's probably wondering where its wheels are.
I break off a piece for him and he works it over with his new molar.
``Ummmm,'' he says.
``Hot dogs,'' I say.
``Woof,'' he says.
Exactly.
We woof it all down. Hot Dog Heaven gives good dog. We get a piece of apple pie to go and share it out on a stoop. It all costs $8.05.
A half-hour later he's in his crib, fast asleep, the sleep of the just.
``He loves hot dogs,'' I whisper to his mother. (This may or may not mean anything. It was only two days before when he tried to eat a tulip.)
Hot Dog Heaven has other foods, too -- sandwiches, soups, even breakfast. It's all tasty.
But nothing beats a dog.
Woof!
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