In the park this morning, a woman walking a chihuahua with a rope stopped to let her wiry dog sniff Loca. For a change, Loca was being tolerant and not a rascal. The woman said in a dreamlike state that her other dog, mama, had P A S T – she spelled it out as if the dogs knew – but what she meant was that the dog had passed – P A S S E D – a term New Orleanians use for died – which I like so much – but something about her, her dark dark skin, the rope around the chihuahua, her spelling P A S T, had such a dreamy quality to it.