In a suddenly very lame twist of events, the word "Domesticated" is an accepted part of the English dictionary.

The pet owner is perhaps the most amusing kind of passerby you can find in the morning on the sidewalk, walking in just the same kind of pomp and show as some local loser of an actor does 15 minutes before a movie in a theater towards his seat right in the first row. My encounter with them, however, extends beyond the mere observation and consequent sarcasm.

I happen to be fond of listening to my MP3 player (I personally believe they should be considered as vital organs of the human body) while I walk down on the road alone or ride my bike or drive a car or do anything that does not involve the company of other fellow humans or the dousing of the body in water or fluid of any other kind, desirable or otherwise. I did not, therefore, notice that the dog, while it was relieving itself of a fluid ("otherwise") on a lamp post, was actually whistling in a rather disconcerting way. This oversight, of course, in the opinion of the large, rectangular and handsome lady sporting holding his leash in her hand like it were King Ottoman's Sceptre, was unpardonable.

"Excuse me," she said, tapping my shoulder. Perhaps the several thousands of Americans that rushed to Texas following the Gold Rush tapped the soil there less painfully with their implements. "Did you hear the dog whine?"

(This I learnt in retrospect because she narrated how impossible I was to talk to, which was quite amusing, considering it was the first occassion I'd ever learnt of her existence being of material consequence to anyone apart from lamp posts where her dog urinated).

At that particular instant, Chester Bennington was asking: "Can't you see that you're smothering me; holding to tightly, afraid to lose control?"

I therefore, quite naturally, shook my head. She scowled at me. I took my earphones off and quite randomly said, "It's ten minutes past seven."

"I asked you, did you hear my dog wail in pain?"

A question such as, "Do you think it is going to rain?" or "Did that police van just contain half a dozen whores that came out of the Income Tax Guest House?" from a stranger-pedestrian on the road would've made infinitely greater sense.

"No," I replied. "I didn't hear your dog wail in pain."

"I swear he did."

I'm sure she'd swear a lot. She'd perhaps swear he recites ballads to her when her husband is on tour (or pretending to, which is what I'd do if I were him).

"I see," was all I contented myself with. How do you tell a woman you have never met, whose appearance is more frightening than the sight of a police man when you've just about only "warmed up" your girlfriend before making out on Marine Drive, that you're not interested in talking with her AT ALL (imagine the capital letters to be the size of a large size advertizing billboard)?

"Do you mind if you hold the leash?"

Ah. What a reasonless formality! Would I mind holding the leash? Who minds holding a leash that has a four-legged, pointed-toothed public urinator on the other end?

"Yes," I replied. "I sincerely mind."

"You're impossible. Go away."

Scarlett Johanson saying, "I want to have you" can't sound any better than this female Obelix telling me to "Go away."

Subsequently, when I turned around to see where the caricatures were, I realized that the dog was in fact wailing in pain. I also subsequently noticed that there were droppings marking a trail along the footpath they'd followed, making the pair look like a mixture of Darwinism gone wrong and an environmentally friendly Hensel and Grettel.

Did you hear my dog wail in pain? I'm afraid not, I should've said, but I did see him shitting with frustration.