Hobos love my dog.

I don't really mean hobos, necessarily, but that subject line length is limiting.  I will rephrase and say "people in my neighborhood who seem to have several hours a day with nothing more to do than hold down a bench in the park and chat with each other or, in some cases, with themselves."

Other people in my neighborhood keep telling me there are loads of greyhounds in the area -- so far I've met just one, and he is a charming old man who gets to wear boots outside to alleviate his arthritis.  Judging by the hobo reactions, though, you'd think I was parading the queen of England around on a leash three times a day.  In the last three weeks, I have gotten received the following bits of feedback from my socioeconomically challenged brethren:

• "Greyhound!"
  
• (sung to a familiar tune you will no doubt figure out) "You ain't nothing but a greyhound..."
  
• "What's that?" This last one happened today, when I was about 50 feet away from a lady (who was, unbelievably, sitting on a bench hanging out with a friend).  I didn't think she was talking to me, but she continued on.  "Hey miss!  What's that?"  I turned around -- "My dog?  This is a greyhound."  "a-HA!"  She was very pleased to find this information out.
  
• There was also a very nice man who liked the look of her coat and wished he could figure out a way to make it fit him. That sounds sad, but he had a perfectly good coat, so I know he was joshing.
  

Now, people in my particular station of life (white people with dogs) also rightfully declaim on the subject of my beautiful dog.  It's just awesome that all the other city folk take time out of their day to admire Maggie too. I'm happy to give them something to smile about.