May 24, 2001 | 12:37 p.m.

May 7th, somewhere on Thompson Street in the heart of the NYU freshman zone, I was midsentence or at least midstory when I noticed the girl and her dog.

The girl was about five years old, obviously quite pleased with herself and the gigantic dog whose leash she held. The dog was Saint-Bernard-like and a virtual pony, as tall as the girl's shoulder. She could have ridden him around Manhattan like a princess and he probably wouldn't have noticed.

But apart from the charm inherent in the odd pair, the real reason I watched the girl so closely was her confidence. She knew we were looking at her and her enormous dog. She looked calmly back, not returning my smile, but not frowning suspiciously at me either, just watching in much the same way she was being watched.

Her comfort in her world was astonishing. She didn't need anyone else's smile to tell her that she and her dog were a magical pair. She didn't need the adults two steps ahead of her to make her feel safe. She didn't seem to want anything else than to walk along with her dog. Even when we passed her, she didn't smile back, just looked at me as if she was used to strange girls watching her so closely.

But a few more steps down the street I turned for one last look and caught her doing the same thing.