My host explained to me that these two were locally famous in town. Two mutes, neither ever saying a word. And I was told that they were always together. Early each day they would come out from the large house where they lived and criss cross along to the very edges of the road until they would stop, which was often. The one who steered the way was a wide dog with a pot belly and rich brown coat, and who most times walked so slow that his leash fell loose behind him. The other mute was a slender man. He possessed a sharp, clear eyed expression. Always immaculate and very soberly dressed, he wore a pressed suit firmly buttoned down against the morning chill.
The old dog was not in a hurry. He would halt and hug the very ground with his fat paws, rolling his pot belly fully across the deep earth. The trim man would stand behind him quietly, a firm grip on the leash. If he was impatient to get to a set appointment, he never showed it. Instead he would wait, eyes very fixed in the present, and when the dog was ready to move again he would give a silent nod and they would go forward. Each day they walked in this manner, without sound, taking their time.
Locally famous. Perhaps it doesn't sound like much, but I have realized that this is what I set out to find some time ago, when I became a sommelier. I'd like to tell the small stories of a particular place, and it if applies to everywhere and always, maybe I'm not interested. I don't know anything about epics, or what is the greatest. I know that in this place, across an ocean from where I live, there were two mutes who did not speak for themselves, and I have a mind to tell you their story for them. Life is what happens in front of you.