The paprika runs up the side of the fried okra like pepper giving off steam. The radio towers in the city blink silently a few blocks away, communing — as ever — with forces and sights unseen. A woman at the table opposite mentions to her companion that an acquaintance of hers turned a dog into a business for tax purposes, and the mind wanders as to how that would work in ideal circumstances — would the acquaintance have to rent an office for the dogs? Would the dogs be charged with signing the papers of incorporation? Would talking heads on CNBC gamely do their best plod on through talking points about the company while trying to suppress the obvious urge to shout, “But they’re dogs!”
