Stray
Big, muscular, well-brushed,
his white fur gray with city dust,
his grin genetic but his eyes
concerned – not yet panicking –
beyond the screen door. Panting.
Reluctant to be touched, until
the leash, evidently dragged
a long way, was tied to a chair
and he had drunk a deep bowl of water.
A tag, “Harry”; a suburban
address five miles from here,
and a number, which answered.
“Your Harry is safe!” Long pause.
– “He got away this morning.”
Not grateful, let alone hysterical,
or relieved, yet not suspicious.
What *was the affect? “Well, he’s here – ”
I gave her the address. Was there
a sound beside her breathing, a voice
besides mine, a TV?
No … “I’ll have to drive down there,”
she said. Perhaps angling
for me to offer, perhaps annoyed.
“Well yes, if you want your dog.
Do you know how to get here?” Silence.
I gave directions, got her name.
For two hours I made friends
with Harry, brushed him. An SUV
parked, blocking the neighbor’s car.
Fortyish; not unattractive
or attractive, thin smile; not obviously
on drugs or meds. Harry greeted her
with wags and his usual phlegm.
“He just sort of slipped away.”
She owned and walked a lot of dogs.
Was evidently waiting
for me to hand her the leash; I was waiting
for thanks. Finally I said,
“I’m glad to have met you. I often try
to imagine the new, simplified,
rudimentary humans. You know on TV,
how on cop shows some preppie
is arrested for killing a rival and asks
the detective, ‘Why are you ruining my life?’
I seldom actually meet
such people – I suppose I shun them.”
“Well I’m glad to meet a real kook,”
she said, and grabbed
the leash. As he trotted
beside her down my driveway, Harry
didn’t look back but only up
at her. Thou art my food source.
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