A woman on our street walks an empty leash around the block every morning at 7:00. For months, I assumed she’d lost a dog and couldn’t let go of the routine, which felt too sad to ask about. Yesterday, a squirrel ran past her and the leash suddenly pulled tight. She was walking a tiny black dachshund wearing a black sweater. From across the street, he blended perfectly into the asphalt. I told her half the neighborhood thought she was grieving. She looked down at the dog and said, “Frank, people think you’re dead.” Frank continued sniffing a mailbox. Apparently the news hasn’t changed him.