December 9 - Bark

"Oh, I see you haven't killed this one yet."
The man looked up at the old lady from where he was stooped over, giving his dog a treat.
"Excuse me?"
"No, I don't think I will," the old woman said. "Not now. Not ever. Not after what you did to those poor dogs. You're sick, you know that?"
The man exhaled deeply, scratching behind his dog's ears.
"I'm not Michael Vick."
"Dog fighting," she said as if she hadn't heard him. "That is just--that is sick."
"I know, but I'm not Michael Vick. I just kind of look like him. People make the mistake all the time."
"Only mistake they ever made was letting you out of prison. And now that you're on a winning team, pretending to walk the straight and narrow, everybody thinks you're this wonderful, reformed person. Well, I've got some "bad newz" for you, sunshine. I don't think you're reformed at all. I think you're a monster."
"Look. Ma'am. I agree with you. Michael Vick did some bad things, but I'm--"
"And on top of that, you talk about yourself in the third person? God, I hate it when you people do that."
"What do you mean you people?"
"Famous athletes!" she spit. "Arrogant celebrities! That's what I mean by you people. Don't play the race card on me, dog killer."
The man stood up, and the old woman flinched. He put up one hand as if to calm her and then reached his other hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.
"Look. Here's my driver's license. See that? Dennis Chapman of Little Rock, Arkansas. Not Michael Vick, OK? I know I look like him, but I ain't him. OK?"
She squinted at the driver's license, glanced up at him, and looked again at the driver's license.
"I still think you're a monster," she said, storming off.
Dennis stood for a moment, watching her walk away. Then he leaned over, cleaned up his dog's poop, and they continued on their way.