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Frederick Pollack wrote: > 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. I would almost say that the only outsized moment is the speaker's address to the woman, but it's not. Animal shelter workers talk like that all the time when someone comes in and says "Oh thank God you rescued my Fluffy/Rex," etc. I did cat adoptions for over three years and occasionally had to adopt a somewhat edgy tone, as in: "What happened to your last pet?" "It died." "How?" [young lady pauses, look across room where very young daughter is going goo-goo-ga-ga to the cats] [whispers almost inaudibly] "She escaped from the house through a door I left open and got run over by a car." The address is a private house in an urban area. Gulp. Hurts to hear every damn time. "You understand she should never have been outside. No cat should be an outside cat unless you're on a farm." Woman is starting to tear up. You can smell the odor of contrition and shame. Ease back on the throttle, Ken. Enough. [Gently] "Ma'am, anyone can make one bad mistake with animals. This was yours. Go join your daughter and look for a cat." At least she didn't tell me I was ruining her life. I suppose I was trying to keep her daughter from finding out too soon that Mommy was a flawed human being. ken -- Ken Wolman http://awfulrowing.wordpress.com/ http://open.salon.com/blog/kenneth_wolman/ http://www.petsit.com/content317832.html --------------------------------- "All writers are hunters, and parents are the most available prey."--Francine du Plessix Gray