There are benches outside Peets at Fillmore and Sacramento. It’s nice in these cool mornings because the sun passes at just the right height to filter through the trees and warm, but not blind you. The dog owners like the corner, too. To them, their dogs are their precious children, and deserve as much a place in the sun as dogless cranks like me and my friends.

I’m on the slatted bench when a dogmother skitters forth, red leather leash in hand. She ties a deft dogknot on the armrest at my left side. My elbow does not exist for this woman. The dog was small, longhaired, and sweet-natured with stained, curly wet mouthfur. Doesn’t matter, dogmother stoops, kisses it on the lips, and warns sternly: “Mommy needs her caffe latte…understand?” She holds its gaze long enough for the news to sink in, then she takes a step toward the entrance. The dog whines meekly — just a squeak. Dogmommy turns with a ferocious glare. “I am serious. When mommy has some caffeine in her system, then you can complain. Not until. Capische?”

Dogmommy leaves. The dog sits quietly. In a few minutes a woman ties up another, smaller dog, to a parking meter nearby. As she walks away, the smaller dog begins barking. Piercing yips, its glass-beaded leash pulled taut. This is painful. The sweet dog turns and stretches on its leash toward the yipper, but they’re tethered too far apart for a smell test. Sweet dog gives up, turns back to me with a look: I tried.

Dogmommy returns. “Did you behave? Well, did you?”

“Yes,” I say, “Your dog was a perfect angel. But that noisy little dog should be trained.”

“Did you hear that? You got a compliment. Good girl.”

So I told Dogmommy a story. It’s one I made up a long time ago, but I told it like it was true. “There was a guy who had a big hound,” I said. “It wasn’t here. It was at another Peets. Anyhow, just like this little pest (the yipper was still going strong), it was making everybody miserable. Not barks, but worse, just strong yowling. Finally, the owner comes out and a few people — me included — complain to him that maybe some training would be a good idea. After the guy unties his dog and leaves, one person says, ‘he won’t be able to train that dog. It’s a hound. That’s what they do. They yowl. Or I should say, they bay.’

“A week later, I come back to that Peets and that same dog was there. He did some yowling, but a lot less. I went up to the dog and made friends with it. Then I noticed it had some fresh cuts on its ears, like it’s been hit or whipped with something sharp. After a few minutes the owner comes out, unties the dog, and walks away. But one lady says to him, ‘you should train that thing to keep quiet. This is where people come for relaxation.’

“A few days after that, it’s pretty much a repeat scene. But this time the dog only yowls for a minute or two. He’s improving. Then I see on the side of the dog that’s turned away from me, the dog’s got a big eyepatch — actually a bandage over his eye. But what the hell, he’s really behaving better.”

Dogmommy’s fascinated and repulsed. She’s about to cut in. “Wait,” I say.

“The last time I saw that dog, it was perfectly behaved. Quiet. Not a whimper. But his right rear leg was in a cast. He still had the eyepatch and the cuts on the ears. When the owner comes out of the coffee shop, he looks at us all, then unties his poor dog, and gives us another mean look. “I hope you guys are happy,” he says.

I think Dogmommy was smart enough to know I was having her on. Maybe not. Anyhow it was time for me to go. By now, that little white dog was making the kind of nerve-twisting noises that only come out of a machine shop.

I petted Dogmommy’s nice dog goodbye, and left.

It just occurred to me there should be a moral to this story. But I don’t think there is.