My neighbor was talking loudly about the Bible and wondered how far back golden retrievers could be traced in history of humanity. Stan Lucca—a man I’d never met before—was telling his girlfriend that most experts refuse to consider the primal bond between the lovely golden canines and Jesus Christ, and he didn’t think that was fair or equitable at all. Sure, he said, people blabber on about St. Francis and his devotion to animals, but not enough about Jesus and my favorite breed dusted with the rays of the golden sun. 

He was arguing with his girlfriend while cooking steaks on his substantial grill on his back porch in a good neighborhood in a tiny New England farming town. It was the first of the month and pandemic fatigue was everywhere. Vaccines were coming out, but you could feel it - people were exhausted and pissed off about almost everything. 

It was twenty degrees and Stan was in beige cargo shorts and a threadbare Hartford Whalers hockey jersey with blue flip-flops and bare toes. He had come out onto the street as I walked by in my sweats and gloves and a knit hat.

“You’re not freezing dressed like that?” I asked him. 

“I love the frigid air, the crisp, nippy coldness of it,“ he said, throwing his hands out like it was raining manna from above. “Gives me the sweetest gooseflesh on my body.” 

“Your dinner smells wonderful, BTW,” I said.

“Red meat is way out of fashion now, I know,” he said. “But there’s something awesome about defiantly grilling a steak on your own porch, sticking up for old school supper traditions and accouterments, like A1 Steak Sauce, Pinot Noir, and Borkum Riff pipe tobacco or maybe a fat Cuban cigar. A big kiss off to all those vegans with their kale, carrot juice, and well-scrubbed colons.”