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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.