Point of (a Great) View

Well, that was probably right, but as many sad pet owners have found on Judge Judy, she doesn't consider the emotional tax on a person who has to surrender an animal. This dog would be heartbroken to be dumped, and I would be a wreck to have to do it, never knowing his fate. I resented being put in that position. Big time.

(The next day, when the dog turned vicious at the park for no apparent reason, I tearfully took him to the SPCA and surrendered him. It was awful.)

Medjool was playing the strangest mix of music, which, aside from my argument, was a distraction from the lovely view. I walked in while the Darkness was playing, only to hear a segue into House of Pain and then some "young country" song; it was like Muzak for dyslexics. "It's the bartender's iPod," the waitress said. I ordered some appetizers, thinking they would be tiny plates (this was San Francisco, after all), only to find a mountain of Asian and Mediterranean food delivered for cheap. 'Twas tasty, too.

My conversation with my friend ended with me giving up, as I usually do, in a codependent slump. I would have to let this go. He thought he was in the right; I thought I was in the right. "I don't want to feel guilty," he said defiantly.

Now, if this column were written by him, the story would probably read differently, and I acknowledge that. Though in this case, in my opinion, the facts have a Katy bias. So there.

The waitress bounced over one last time to give me the bill, and I gladly gave her a big fat tip. I boarded the elevator and sailed down to street level, emerging on Mission in front of the lady who sells tamales from the trunk of her car. I personally would think twice about eating one myself, though I've heard they are the best in town. But these things are relative.