Street Yellers Anonymous

Friday was textbook Portland: low 70s, overcast, light sprinkles—romantic, if your type is “soggy.”

Evening walks are always a gamble. By daylight, the streets shimmer with grime and the glow of a hundred party drugs. But after sundown? Cue the undead. Slow, staggering, unpredictable, all under the watchful eye of a passive-aggressive full moon.

The park blocks had the usual lineup: dogs, more dogs, a squirrel on a leash, and a man locked in mortal combat with his invisible fairy godmother. Walking solo always means walking faster, my furry companions and I did the classic crisscross, the universal city-walker sidestep. Almost clear. Almost.

Then my finely tuned anti-yell radar failed. From a bench came the ascending chant:
“Hi!”
“HHH-hey!”

Time slowed, but not in a good way. I was all ears.

Finally: “I could train your dogs!”

Excuse me? That’s not street heckling—that’s a side hustle pitch. Forget catcalling, this was Craigslist-calling.

And the part of me that’s equal parts curious and unhinged wondered—what if I said yes? “You, sir, whose conversational opener is shouting like a broken foghorn—you seem exactly like the authority I want shaping my pets’ behavior.”

The Grime Lesson

And that’s why you never assume yelling is a lost art in Portland. Sometimes it’s just badly marketed freelance work.

The Glitter Lesson

But hey—at least it wasn’t “nice dogs, shame if something happened to them.” That’s what counts as sparkle here.

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