Skater punks.

A brief warm break in the weather perfectly coincided with the arrival of Kurt's new Penny board. Outside, I'd stand at the end of the road, yelling, "Here, Herby!" or "Come onnnn, Mullins!" At my call, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon, quickly growing closer. There was a skateboarding husband, tethered to a galloping hound, pulling him down the bike lane toward my voice. We did this for hours. The dogs took turns. They pulled like it was their job. To the passersby not aware of our game, I probably looked like a loon standing alone at the end of the road, hollering with that grin.