pointy-eared dogs

"You're supposed to be afraid of the pointy-eared dogs, Aunt Zoey," my niece reported.
Maybe something some stupid kid said out in the road, leaning on a bike he thought was faster than her's, or during a game of hide and seek in the dusk when it's scary and her resistance was low.
I pigeon-hole, again. Maybe it was some annoying girl who wanted her to play Barbies. She could have said something about "pointy-eared dogs."

About the dime in the middle of the street along my run: my location has changed, the environment, I'm in a completely different time zone, using a different cable provider, heavy traffic outside my house. (Even though it still feels like some stranger's house. I need to paint a wall.)
Whoever or whatever drops the dimes. I never thought the coins could be for someone else. Today I am The Interloper. A comic-book, lean, big-breasted thief trying to decode my timeline and identify who, possibly, could be just behind me.

I'm missing a page.