Grendel and I have a routine:

I wake. I rub his tummy. He rolls and stretches in ecstasy. I shuffle into the bathroom to brush my teeth and shower. And while I moisturize, he sneaks up and starts licking the lotion off my ankles. I shriek and dance away. He smiles with his tail, proud of his �gotcha!� That one never gets old.

I finish grooming and dressing. He chews on his blue gorilla. Then I go downstairs while he sits at the top, waiting on his incentive.

I wash and refill his water bowl. He cocks his head. I open his food trunk. His tags jingle as he gets to his feet. I scoop up kibble and pour it into his food dish, and he clumps halfway down the stairs. Then I stand at the bottom and make �magic fingers,� silently promising a good scratching if he comes down. Finally, he thinks, incentive!

Scratch, scratch. Rub, rub. Pat, pat. Now, he�s ready to go on his morning constitutional. He grabs his leash and walks past me to the front door. He flashes me �let�s go!� eyes as I grab keys, phone and coffee money. �I�m coming, I�m coming,� I say. I open the door, and we�re off.

Every morning (except maybe Sundays or hangover Saturdays) we walk about 2 blocks to the Green Muse for coffee. It�s a bonding experience, really.

I learn to slow down, that walking isn�t just a means to an end � that the joy is in the walk itself. In the birds chirping, in the leaves turning, in morning breezes that promise frost soon. Grendel learns that acorns will make him throw up if he eats them. (Unfortunately, he has to learn this everyday anew.) And that yes, I leave. (I go shower, I go to the bathroom, I tie him outside while I go in for coffee�) But I always come back.

And then we walk home. I put him and his breakfast on the back porch now that it�s cooler, and then I go to work. That�s the routine. Sometimes, we chat with the mailman. Sometimes, Grendel will convince a stranger to scratch him behind the ears. But essentially, that�s it.

So, you ask, where�s the rant? Well, here you go:

Yesterday morning, Grendel and I are rounding the corner on our way back home, and it happens. I get racially profiled, stereotyped, whatever you call it.

I�m a single black woman living in �SoCo,� a place where you either live in pricey houses or government subsidized apartments (funny how there seems to be little middle ground with gentrification). I�m walking my dog with my work clothes on and a cup of coffee in my hand. When this white lady driving a black Infinity drives up. She rolls her window down, and with this puzzled look on her face, she asks,

�Do you know where the WIC office is?�

[WIC is a social welfare program for poor women and their children. �The Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children � better known as the WIC Program � serves to safeguard the health of low-income women, infants, & children up to age 5 who are at nutritional risk by providing nutritious foods to supplement diets, information on healthy eating, and referrals to health care� to be exact. I just looked it up.]

I didn�t even know 78704 had a WIC office. All I knew at the time was that WIC was some kind of welfare, that this woman looked at me walking through the neighborhood (I was one house away from home at the time) and assumed I lived in the government subsidized apartments down the street. That I would know where the welfare offices were.

�Screw you! Do you know how insulting that sounds? I�m a black woman living in the Bouldin Creek neighborhood, so I�ve got to be getting government assistance? So, I�d know where all the welfare offices are? Black folks would be too poor to actually own one of these houses? You don�t get out much do you? Go to hell.�

Esprit de l�escalier. That�s what I wish I�d said. I didn�t say anything though. I just shook my head and said, �No,� tugged on Grendel�s leash and walked into my yard.

I was too shocked, too hurt, too disappointed by her behavior. The anger came later.

Try to understand. If she�d said, �I�m lost. I�m looking for the nearest WIC office�� I�d have told her to park in my driveway (she was right in front of my house). That I�d I grab a phone book, and she could use my phone.

That didn�t happen. And now, I�m left hurt and angry by this encounter with a stranger who, with any luck, I�ll never have to meet again.

To be perfectly honest, there�s this petty little part of me that wishes that she�s still circling the block a day and a half later, lost with that silly look on her face.

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