We were walking down Ocean Drive the other day, Cole in his stroller, grandparents nearby. We’d stopped to look at a table of wares being peddled as part of the Art Deco Festival — vintage this and crafty that — and someone’s dog snapped at him. “Sorry, he never does that!” the owner apologized. Except, of course, just did. Denial.
Cole had been cranky all day: woke up on wrong side of bed, tired of sharing me with my parents, or just his talent at being an asshole. Bitchy cur didn’t help.
Then we ran into a local publicist with whom I’m friendly. It was her first time meeting Cole, whom of course she’d heard all about before. “Hi there!” she said, in sunny PR voice and her very stylish hat.
“Go away!” Cole retorted in surly toddler faux-hawk. (The ‘do makes the man.)
“Cole!” I said. “Sorry, he’s a little cranky today.”
“That’s okay. I understand. I’ll go away, Mr. Cole.”
Cole looks up at her. “Why are you still here?”
I don’t know where he learns these things. But all my colleagues at the Herald want him to teach them to ward off flacks.