Since moving to San Francisco, dog walks and booze runs have become one of the same. Part necessity and part perceived necessity, Woody the dog has become somewhat of a regular at the market up the hill from my house. They generally give him treats at the register—so I figure we’re both getting things that make us happy.
But recently I’ve been drinking more water and the shop has changed ownership so we’ve lost our “regular” status. These days, the treat distribution is sporadic at best and they definitely don’t recognize me. We stopped by the other night after a particularly crazy day and were greeted by suspicious glances at the door and a quiet head nod.
We made our rounds through the narrow aisles as Woody ran his muzzle along the lower shelves looking for a snack. I pulled some moderately priced wine from the shelf and headed for the door. After paying and one-handedly jamming the bottles in my Bay-Area-standard-issue canvas bag, the man behind the register scanned my face.
“Nice dog…do you have ID?”
Surprised by his delayed request, I responded with a confused expression.
“ID…please,” he pressed.
Leash in hand and Pinot Grigio on my shoulder, I fished my wallet out of my pocket and worked my driver’s license out of its compartment.
“ID for alcohol,” he reiterated, clarifying the reason for his request.
“It’s cool,” I said, trying to put him at ease.
“Yes…cool,” he echoed with a smile.
Seconds later, we were back on the street. With the smell of eucalyptus in the cool evening air, we slowly strolled back down the hill to enjoy a romantic evening for two—man of legal drinking age and beast.