Walking along St. Mark’s Place while in Manhattan late last Saturday afternoon, my sister and I beheld a common East Village sight—a colorfully eccentric homeless man…and his dog.

Jessie James, a five year-old pit mix, appeared well fed and thrifty. She and her owner, a ruddy-faced, white-haired Vietnam vet, are a well-known fixture in the neighborhood. Everybody knows and loves them…hence, the lengthy conversation that followed.

I was introduced as “my sister the vet.” Though I find it an odd designation in general, I guess the explanation made sense since my sister has previously taken Jessie and her owner to the vet’s for well visits and medical help when necessary.

After a nice chat on the team’s new living arrangements and Jessie’s pass to ride public transportation (a special dispensation for some veterans), we prepared to part. That was when Jessie’s owner asked with unfeigned innocence, “It was nice meeting you. By the way, what war were you in?”

I have to say it took me a couple of seconds to recover but I was able to assure him relatively quickly that I had not at any time been a member of the armed services. I was, instead, a member of the club of animal doctors who practice medicine on pets.

Jessie’s owner was unperturbed by the change of direction the chance meeting had taken. Without batting an eye he then asked me to examine his dogs’ own two peepers for evidence of clouding or age.

After a brief sidewalk examination, I assured him there was no obvious change to his dogs’ eyes but that without equipment it would be impossible to know for sure. Switching quickly to a more personal invocation he then thanked me and said, “Doc, I just needed a little comfort. She’s all I’ve got, you know?”