It’s a bracingly cold fall morning. I watch the dogs play, and Charlotte, poking her head out of the sling, watches, too. This moment is always a nice transition before I take her out of the sling and let her join the fun for a while, before we go off on the walk. It’s an especially welcome moment of peace today after so much stress: the disastrous trip to Vermont; adjusting to my braces and being in the black hole of shame for what I said to Michael Wasserman; Gary and I not talking further about the kiss since he first confessed to it in our bedroom. Not to mention: Glenn’s steady decline. Despite it all, I force myself to follow the advice I’ve prescribed in twenty or fifty or a hundred of my Well/er pieces: gratitude. I’m grateful to be outside on such a glorious New England fall day; I’m grateful to have my dog with me; I’m grateful to have a supportive husband, even if that husband isn’t technically my husband anymore, and even if that husband is in-like with another woman.

But today, before I can take the dog out of the sling, a troll of a woman—big-haired and wild-eyed, with giant hiking boots made for mountains, not urban trails—makes a beeline for me. I ignore her, trying to blend into the sea of puffy coats, but her eyes are on me and on the sling. She weaves through the crowd until she is right on me. She taps me on the shoulder.

“Is that a baby sling?”

“Excuse me?” I try to keep my teeth covered when I talk so that she won’t make fun of my braces.

“Is that a baby sling? You’re carrying a dog in there, not a baby.”

“It’s none of your business what I’m carrying in there.”

“Is the dog injured?”

“No, the dog isn’t injured.”

“Then why are you carrying it?”

“Because it’s my dog. And I can carry her if I want to.”

She nods, all-knowing, seething. “I’ve seen you here before, carrying your dog around like a baby. It’s not good for the dog.”

“How do you know?” I want to hit her.

“Because I know.”

“Are you the animal police?”

“I’m a concerned citizen.”

Another woman joins the conversation. “She’s right. You should let the dog out.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m her friend.” She points at the troll. “And I agree with her: let the dog be free.”

“She is free.”

“No, she’s not. She’s trapped.”

“She’s about to go for a walk, so you can just relax.”

“When? When is she going for a walk?” A third person has now appeared.

“When she’s ready.”

“She’s ready now.”

“How do you know? Are you a dog psychic?”

“All I know is that I’m not comfortable with what I’m seeing. I’m not comfortable with you confining a dog against its will.”

“Neither am I.” A fourth person has appeared.

“And neither are we.” Two more, a couple of some kind, have joined the conversation.