An Old Man and his Old Dog

As we came to a stop in front of Embassy Row, enjoying a shallow respite before crossing the Han, I glanced over to my left and saw them. They were about to walk over the crosswalk, but wavered as if they were waiting for something, or someone. Despondently, resigned to being alone for yet another day, they took off as only an Old Man and Old Dog can do. Slowly. The Old Man took the lead early and never relinquished it. Behind, gingerly the Old Dog struggled valiantly to keep up, pushing his creaky limbs harder than he had in years  through the leg holes in his brand new red pleated, nylon jacket. Looking ahead, towards something, the Old Man's eyes sat staidly, sunk within sockets entombed by two coke bottle lenses. As we began to lurch forward, I craned my neck to watch the Old Man and Old Dog fade from view. They were continuing fore; slowly, shakily, but surely.