i dreaded my walk home at night. it was usually after 11pm, and i didn’t live in a very safe neighborhood. it was oakland, california, in 1997. in the four months since i moved there, i had already been roughed up a few times, chased by an angry rottweiler, and robbed at gunpoint. it was a forty-minute journey from my job in berkeley to my apartment , and each mile seemed slightly less comforting than the last. when i got within a few blocks of my front door, i often broke into a sprint. the last few blocks of the trip were always the most dangerous.

it was early january, and i was working as a night editor at a small newspaper. i proofread a daily sports section, wrote headlines above the articles, and cutlines under the photographs. i didn’t really like sports, though, so i was perpetually discontent. i felt like an idiot every time i sat at my desk, and assumed that everyone in the office was snickering at me behind my back. toward the end of my third month on the job, when over half of the writers were regularly providing their own headlines, i flipped out one night, wrote a 20-page letter of resignation, cut out select sentences with scissors, and handed one to each reporter on the staff . i wore boxer shorts covered in hearts on the outside of my jeans, and skated from desk to desk on a pair of rollerblades as i delivered my sentences.

after my episode, my boss convinced me that the majority of the staff appreciated my work, despite my ignorance about sports, and sincerely wished that i would stay on. i couldn’t bring myself to actually resign that day but, really, i couldn’t wait to get out of there.

at the time, i also worked the morning shift as a front desk clerk at a botique hotel. there were only 22 rooms in the building, so i had a lot of time to read. i enjoyed my six a.m. walk from my baren apartment in the ghetto to a the serene, ivy-covered campus in berkeley. i wore my headphones as i walked. the air was brisk and i could see my breath as my legs locked into a rhythm with the music. as i encroached on my destination, the fog would lift and the birds would chirp and the day would creep over the dew covered green. arriving at the hotel -- at my desk, beside a great hall, with book-lined shelves and towering clocks, antique furnishings, and gigantic paintings -- i would drink coffee and skim through the newspaper. here and there a guest would check out, we would have a quick exchange of funds and a brief, polite conversation, and then i would return to the freedom of my own business, the books of short stories and notebooks and novels before me. as classical music hummed in the hallway, i poured over my reading, sipped my coffee, wrote in my journal, and typically made a sketch or two.

there were rumors that the guy who worked the graveyard shift intended to move to texas soon, to be with his sick mother, and leave his position. i was next in line to take his place, which paid a lot more, so, if he in fact left, i resolved to quit the newspaper once and for all, and just work nights at the hotel. my lease was up at the end of february, after all, and i had designs to go to europe. i had already booked the flight, actually, departing for london on april 1st. if i worked nights, i figured i could just be homeless for the month of march, sleep in the park, and save some up some extra money for my trip.

after a particularly long night at the newspaper, where, with reckless abandon, i smoked hit after hit of pot on the fire escape, and wrote headline after headline full of sexual innuendoes and inside jokes for the benefit of the production staff, i returned to the haunting familiarity of unlit sidewalks and long, empty train station parking lots, as well as the barred up windows, the incessant sound of sirens and the haggard, littered front lawns indicating that i was almost home. i wore my headphones, but my radio was off. i took large steps and long breaths, avoided all pedestrians, and changed my route whenever i felt it was necessary, taking care to move toward only the quietest blocks. i made it home unharmed, once again, and, as i approached my porch, i saw something strange.

a scruffy, stray dog perched before my door. he was sitting, upright and attentive. he was fairly large, definitely what most would consider a big dog. a big, dirty mutt. but i wasn’t intimidated. the long, disorderly tan hair which hung all over his body somehow gave him an innocent look. a patch of bangs hung from his forehead, over his eyes, which locked onto mine as i produced my keys. i couldn’t help myself. i patted him on the head. his tail began to wag. i scratched the dog’s ears, patted his head once more, and unlocked my door.

i went straight to bed. before i had even zipped up my sleeping bag, though, i heard the most unusual sound. it sounded like a loud moan, as if someone were crying. then i realized it was a howl. i lay there, listening, as the howling continued, echoing off the brick walls that lined the courtyard. i covered my head with my pillow, but the howling was too loud to endure. i waited patiently for it to stop. but it wouldn’t. it didn’t. finally, after at least twenty minutes of howling, i rose from the ground and stumbled to the front door. i opened it to find the dog there, wagging his tail, and dancing slightly on his front paws. “fine!” i shouted. “you can come in. just shut the hell up!”

the dog barked, quietly, and then louder. he jumped a bit more, keeping his back paws on the ground. i let the dog through the door, pointed to the corner, and went back to my room.

the next morning, the dog was sound asleep, in the corner of my living room, as i got ready for work. i splashed some water on my face, brushed my teeth, and put on my shoes. as soon as i picked up my backpack, the dog was on his feet, his tail wagging madly. “you’re an old man, aren’t you?” i asked.

the dog had a lot of energy, but was obviously well along in years. he was scrawny from lack of food, and dirty from living outdoors, but likewise had numerous grey hairs and a little arthritis in his stride. i flung the door open. “c’mon, grandpa, let’s go!”

i pointed to the wind, down the driveway, at the road, and into the future. but the dog didn’t budge. he stood by my side, looking up at me. i took a few steps. the dog walked, too. i stopped. so did the dog. “dude!” i stuck my arms out to my sides. “i have to go to work. you better go do whatever it is you do.”

i proceeded to walk down the same old sidewalks, marching across town, in the morning mist, among the morning sounds. the dog walked beside me. we walked side by side. i couldn’t help but smile. especially when the dog and i approached a corner. i noticed several people hurrying across the street. the dog had some very large teeth, after all. they looked a lot like fangs, and protruded like dangerous weapons from his mouth. when i came to a crosswalk, the dog stopped and waited. when i walked, he walked. the dog followed me all the way to the hotel.

when i got to work and opened the front door, the dog tried to slip inside. i grabbed him and pulled him back out. i had to manuever for a bit, through a slightly open door, to get inside the hotel and leave the dog out. as i proceeded to my desk, the dog stood there, at the door, looking in. then he began to pounce. he stood on his hind legs, and ran his front paws over the glass on the door. my manager appeared. “what the hell is your dog doing here?”

“it’s not my dog,” i said.

“well, who’s dog is it?”

the hotel manager had the sort of skin that turned red with the slightest provocation. his collar was always really tight, too. with his bright red face, it looked as if he were perpetually being choked by his shirt and tie.

“it’s nobody’s dog,” i said. “i let him crash at my place last night. and then he followed me to work.”

“you let him what? well, he can’t be here,” said my manager. he took small, furious steps to the front door, flung it open, and began waving his hands about madly. “shooo! shooo! you dirty mutt! shooo!”

the dog jumped back, moved his head back and forth, tried to make a break for the door, and then jumped back some more. “shoo! shoo!” cried the manager, clapping his hands together.

grandpa took off after that. he ran down the street, while the manager rubbed his palms together as if they were covered with dust. “you can’t bring your dog to work.” he said as he glared at me. “that’s not the sort of impression we want for our guests.”

“i told ya, man. it’s not my dog.”

after my shift at the hotel, i wandered around the berkeley campus for a while, and eventually ended up under a bridge by a creek. my sister played the flute for over a decade, but had lost interest in playing it in recent years. so, the last time i visited her, per my request, she let me borrow the instrument. i had since been learning how to play it, little by little, between my morning and evening shifts each day. on this particular afternoon, i smoked some pot by the creek, and worked on the flute for a couple hours, listening to the melodies echo off the stone walls. then, as usual, at 6pm, i sat at my desk at the newspaper, and typed my typical lines of alliteration - “Bears Bludgen Badgers 13 - 3,” and so on. around 11pm, i made my daily journey home -- the slow descent into poverty and neglect, trading flowers for broken windows, green grass for dirt, joyous gatherings for quiet, empty streets. i made it home alive once again and, on my porch, there he sat. grandpa.

the dog barked a few times upon seeing me and rose to his feet. his tail flew back and forth, and he took a few hesitant steps forward. i came upon him and threw him a scratch behind his ears. “you don’t give up, do you?”

so, there we stood, the dog and i. i held my keys in my hand. “look, man,” i said. “i can’t have a dog right now. i’m serious. i’m only living here for a couple more months, and then i’m taking off. and there’s no way you’ll be able to come with me. understand?”

the dog stared at me and wagged his tail. “serioulsy, dude. you can crash here if you want. for a little while. i don’t care. but i’m not going to feed you or brush you or take your picture or anything like that. i can’t have a dog right now. i really can’t.”

i walked into my apartment and the dog marched to the corner. i went to my room and crawled into my sleeping bag.

on my way to work ithe next morning, the dog walked beside me, as before. i had to make a couple phone calls, so i stopped by a pay phone and dialed. the dog sat beside me. i was extremely pleased, as it was the first time since i lived in oakland that i was able to make a phone call without someone accosting me and asking me for change. the dog seemed to make people afraid. really, nobody dared to walk near me. the dog wasn’t wearing a leash, after all, and he had those fangs. i certainly didn’t mind having him around. as we walked the miles toward the hotel, i noticed a lot of people looking at me and the dog, and then crossing to the other side of the street.

when i arrived at the hotel, i turned to the dog. “look, you gotta hit the road, bro.” i pointed down the street. the dog just stared at me. “i have to go to work, so you have to split.” i pointed again. the dog looked down the road, then looked at me. i started to walk toward the hotel doors. the dog followed. “hey!” i stopped, turned, and pointed again. i began waving my arms furiously, pointing. the dog backed up a bit, lowered his head, and then slowly walked off. he stopped, turned and looked at me, and took a few small steps. “go!” i shouted, and waved my arms again. the dog proceeded down the road. and i went to work.

about halfway through my shift, my manager informed me that the night auditor position had opened up, and, if i was interested, i could start working nights as soon as i was ready. i said i would begin immediately, and, within minutes, i called the newspaper and quit. “can you at least finish out the week?” asked the editor-in-chief. “nope,” i said. and i would not be in tonight either.

grandpa was sleeping on the porch when i walked up my driveway. “surprise!” i shouted. “i’m home early!”

the dog hopped to his feet and began barking wildly. “c’mon, grandpa, let’s go to the park!”

so, it was early afternoon, around 3pm, and, even though i had just walked five miles from downtown berkeley, i walked five miles back to the hills, to tilden park, with my new friend. it was an unusually warm and sunny winter day, so i brought my acoustic guitar with me and, during the time that i was usually at the newspaper proofreading and revising articles, i sat on a bench and strummed, looking out over the bay and the skyscrapers of san francisco in the distance. grandpa sat at my feet, and sniffed at things blowing by in the breeze. we hung out for most of the afternoon, me strumming the guitar and grandpa sniffing. at one point, i decided to wander down the hill to a small tunnel that separated the park from a large rose garden. i was always a sucker for tunnels when i had an instrument in my hands.

i strummed in the tunnel for a while and sang quietly. grandpa stood at the foot of the tube, as if on guard. whenever someone came near, he would bark furiously. a few people poked around to see where the music was coming from but, given the barking, nobody stuck around too long.

all of the sudden, as i strummed and listened to the the music on the walls, i heard a lot of yelping and growling. a serious struggle of some sort. i turned to notice grandpa had a small brown dog in his mouth. he was shaking it back and forth, thrashing it around. an older woman, extremely overweight, with four chins and a bright pink shirt, screamed at the top of her lungs. “my muffin!” she screamed. “help! somebody help! my muffin!”

the woman picked up a stick off the ground and took a few swats at grandpa. i stopped playing and watched. after the woman wacked grandpa a few times with the stick, he dropped the small brown dog from his mouth, which promptly ran off. the woman had tears in her eyes as she scurried to pick up the battered dog from the ground. she kissed it all over, and inspected it closely for injuries. then she shivered, and glared at me. “your dog almost KILLED my muffin!”

i began strumming my guitar again. “it’s not my dog,” i said.

the woman chewed on her bottom lip as she began to shake violently. “i am going to the police!” she shouted, and rushed off. i promptly threw my guitar in it’s case and hurried toward home. grandpa walked swiftly by my side.

the next day, when i started working nights at the hotel, i didn’t let grandpa follow me to work. i locked him in my apartment for the night instead. when i came home in the morning, though, i put him out. even though i let him sleep in my apartment, i was determined not to allow him to hang around too often. i resolved especially not to feed him. i had to ensure that he wouldn’t depend on me for anything more than a temporary place to crash. i didn’t want him to get too attached before i went abroad. whatever he was doing to get food before we met, i figured he could continue with those methods.

alas, aside from a brief disappearance here and there throughout the day, grandpa didn’t really go anywhere. instead, he sat at the end of my driveway and barked. for hours. he barked at people walking by, at people in the distance, and at the mailman. he even barked at cars. when i couldn’t take the racket anymore, i would open my front door and whistle. grandpa would then sprint up the driveway and charge into my apartment, his tail wagging vigoriously as he jumped around. before long, i kept him inside most of the time. i didn’t have a choice. it was all i could do for a little peace and quiet.

after a few weeks, with grandpa constantly by my side, i decided i had to do something about his stench. it may have been years since he last had a bath and, by this time, my apartment smelled thoroughly like a dirty dog. so, the next thing i knew, i was giving him a bath. he was shy, and slightly upset, as i poured buckets of water over his head. i lathered up his long mangled hair with shampoo as he shivered. he looked at me as if i were doing something extremely cruel to him. i dried him with a towel and he proceeded to shake vigorously and run about the apartment, barking.

after that, i must have really lost my head. as if possessed, i walked to the corner store and, as grandpa waited patiently outside, i purchased a bag of dog food. i couldn’t help myself. his ribs were showing, and his limbs were beginning to look more and more like long sticks. after i poured some food into a bowl, grandpa stared at it for several minutes from across the room. “go ahead!” i finally shouted. “eat up!”

the dog slowly crept up to the food, and, after a long pause and a quick glance in my direction, proceeded to rapidly devour the contents. I poured him another bowl. “well, shit. looks like we got ourselves a little predicament, eh?”

despite feeling somewhat tired at all times, i enjoyed my job at the hotel. at first, the paperwork required by my position took me about two hours to complete. after a few weeks, though, i had the process down to about thirty minutes. on occaision, someone would show up late to check into the hotel and, likewise, in the morning, i sporadically had to deal with an early check-out. otherwise, most of the time on the clock was mine. i read a great deal. i wrote a great deal. and, before long, i was taking frequent naps on the couch in the great hall, setting my alarm to wake up every hour or so. i would stumble around and make sure nobody was up early to check out, note that the place wasn’t on fire, and perhaps listen to the telephone messages for any important calls i may have missed while i was asleep. i walked home at 7 o’clock each morning, groggy and disoriented, to a rising sun. it was a nice walk. i rarely had any suspicion that i might get robbed, and i always took the most direct route. by the time i opened my front door, the sun was getting bright and warm. i would let grandpa out for a bit, pour out a bowl of food, smoke a cigarette, and go to sleep. grandpa would usually eat a few bites and then lay down beside me.

most afternoons, i woke up around three. it was about a five block walk to the nearest coffee, and grandpa would tag along as i shuffled there. he waited outside while i made my purchase, and then followed me back to my apartment. i would play my guitar for several hours while grandpa stood at the end of the driveway and barked. or he would sit by my feet, when i couldn’t take the noise anymore. sometimes i would go to the park. but it was difficult to have grandpa along. it was obvious he didn’t like other dogs. if we went to the park, i knew he would end up in a fight.

one morning, while walking home from work, a woman’s face appeared in a window. it was an angry face, puffed up below curlers. “hey!”

i stopped and looked around until i located a pair of mean eyes in the window. “hey, you! yo mutha fuckin’ dog been shittin’ in my yard!”

“huh?”

“you heard me. YO MUTHA FUCKING DOG BEEN SHITTIN IN MY YARD!”

“Hmm...I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I don’t have a dog.”


with only about a week remaining before my lease ended, i suddenly noticed there were a lot of kids hanging around my apartment. i guess they liked grandpa. as he barked ferociously at the end of the driveway, the kids from the neighborhood liked to run up on him, taunt him for a bit, and then scurry off. they seemed to be having a lot of fun. beyond that, i had lined a lot of windows around my apartment with pot plants. months before, i had cut a bunch of empty two-liter bottles in half, filled them with dirt from my back yard, and set them on all of the window sills in the back of my apartment. i picked all the seeds out of a bag of pot i had one day, threw them into the dirt, and poured water on them now and again -- a couple times a week. all of the sudden, all the plants were two or three feet high. kids began popping up in the backyard all the time, in increments, smiling and pointing. many of them were under ten-years-old, and i couldn’t believe they even knew what they were looking at. regardless, dozens of kids from the neighborhood began constantly hanging around my place, either to badger the dog, or to sneak into my back yard to see the plants.

eventually someone knocked on my door. a frail black kid stood before me. he was a bit nervous. “can your dog come out and play?” he asked. “we like your dog.”

i looked across the courtyard and saw a few more kids standing in the driveway.

“it’s not my dog,” i said.

“huh?”

“i said it’s not my dog.”

grandpa barked from behind my legs in the doorway. “actually,” i added, ”do you want him? you can have the dog if you want.”

“i can have him?”

“yeah, go ask your mom if you can have him. come back with her, and you can take him home.”

the kid stood in silence, wearing a puzzled expression.

“but you have to take care of him,” i cautioned. “you have to feed him and walk him and treat him nice.”

“oh yeah!” said the kid, suddenly animated. “i can take care of him! my older brother got a lot of dogs, and he feeds ‘em and pets ‘em and he don’t beat ‘em at all. he never beats ‘em or nothing.”

“well, then he’s yours!” i said, and snapped my fingers at grandpa, motioning for him to go outside.

grandpa walked through the open front door and, in an instant, the kid slapped the dog in the middle of his back and took off running. the other kids took off, too, all laughing and squealing wildly. grandpa charged down the driveway after the kids, barking his face off. i went back to playing the guitar for a while, as grandpa and the kids ran around the courtyard, making a terrible racket.

around that time, my manager showed up during my shift at the hotel to finish his monthly paperwork. i decided to mention that i intended to travel for a while, and that i could only work for another month -- until the end of march.

“you’re going to get robbed in spain,” said my manager, shaking his red face.

“shit, man, i’m gonna get robbed in oakland.”

i hadn’t given much thought to what i was going to do when my lease ended. the last day of the month fell on a saturday, and i didn’t work on weekends. i would thus have to find someplace to sleep outdoors on my first night without an apartment. i figured, if i couldn’t come up with four walls somehow, i would do what a lot of the local homeless people seemed to do, and just have a lot to drink. it shouldn’t be too difficult. there was enough forest around berkeley, after all, especially in the hills. i was confident i could find someplace to pass out and remain undisturbed until morning. when i got back to work during the week it would be a lot easier. in my experience, the police rarely showed up when someone slept in a park during the day.

when saturday arrived, i spent the afternoon packing and cleaning up my apartment. i cut down all of my pot plants and packed all the leaves into plastic bags. i rolled a few joints with some of the leaves, and smoked one. as i scrubbed the floors and the walls, grandpa followed me from room to room. he was practically glued to me. i wondered if he knew what was happening. he seemed so nervous, and so intent on staying by my side, it certainly felt as if he did. meanwhile, i kept a constant eye on my windows for the neighborhood kids. hour after hour, however, nobody came.

once the apartment was clean, and my packing was complete, i spent a long time smoking cigarettes and looking over the place, in a chair, in a daze, in the middle of the living room. i took one last look around, grabbed my things, and stepped out. i locked the front door and walked down the street. of course, grandpa tagged along beside me, i stopped by my landlord’s house, dropped my key in her mailbox, and then walked toward berkeley. my backpack and sleeping bag hung from my shoulders as i strolled, my guitar case dangling from my right hand. grandpa walked alongside, hanging tight to my left leg.

as i entered the berkeley city limits i approached a large grocery store. i didn’t think about what i was doing, i just walked in. i thought perhaps i could find a back door or separate entrance somewhere, exit there, and ditch grandpa out front. i hurried down an aisle toward the back of the store when i heard some gasping and shouting. i turned around to notice granpa running down the aisle toward me. “what the. . . ?

since we met, grandpa was always pretty good about waiting patiently outside of stores and cafes whenever i went in. but, again, he must have sensed what was happening. a clerk in a green apron came rushing up behind grandpa, as the dog approached and stopped in front of me. “sir! sir!” yelled the clerk, “you can’t have that dog in here!”

“it’s not my dog,” i said.

the woman stopped and stared at me, confused. i turned the corner and walked up the adjacent aisle, back toward the entrance to the store. grandpa scurried along. i stopped in the front of the store, and waved my hands madly, shouting at grandpa, “get lost! stop following me!”

a family seated at a nearby picnic table eating ice cream stopped licking to look on. “i told you before, i can’t have a dog!”

grandpa sat down and stared up at me. “go!” i shouted again, pointing across the parking lot. i turned and rushed back into the store. i proceeded to a coffee stand and ordered a cup. and, to the sound of a few more gasps and sighs, grandpa came running up. behind the dog, was another clerk, this one holding a dog leash in her hand. “here,” she said, “you can borrow this to tie him up with while you shop.”

i took the leash and my coffee and sat at a picnic table in front of the store. i tied granpa to the table, gathered up my things, and walked off. but i didn’t get far. i noticed the family with the ice cream cones staring at me, so i walked back to the table. i sat for a while, smoking cigarettes, waiting for the family to leave so i could sneak off. grandpa’s eyes were glued to me. i tried not to look at him.

eventually, i opened up my backpack and took out a notebook and pen. i looked at the blank page for a while, and then looked over at grandpa. he was still staring at me. i noticed how long his eyelashes were, hanging over his sad and wise eyes. without hesitation, i composed a silly little poem:


“i like kids and loving scratches
i’m content without a bone
i look sweet with long eyelashes
i can watch and guard your home

you’ve had days your fire needs matches
you’ve walked under clouds of grey
but can’t you see my long eyelashes?
can’t you see my will to play?

it’s no matter what your curse
my reception is a burst
of joyous wagging, eager howls
pouncing panting, dear bow wows

so, please dear human, take my leash
embrace me and enrich your time
a lifetime is so short a lease
and there’s no love as pure as mine”

i tore the poem from my notebook and copied it onto another page. grandpa struggled as i folded the poem onto his collar. i looked around and noticed that all of the picnic tables were vacant. i stuffed my notebook into my pack, threw it over my shoulder, grabbed my guitar, and rushed off. as i scurried across the parking lot, i fought the temptation to look back. but i couldn’t resist. by the time i got to the end of the lot, i turned to see grandpa in the distance, standing on his hind legs, tugging on his leash, trying with all his might to get to me. i quickly turned my head and walked on.

as i came to the university of california campus, the sun was beginning to set. since it was a saturday night, things were beginning to get festive on telegraph avenue. i walked into a bar and found a seat in the corner where i could stash my bag and guitar. i ordered a pitcher of beer and sat there, scribbling in my notebook, eavesdropping, and watching the people move and talk and laugh and shout. coincidentally, the seat i chose in the corner was near the women’s restroom. as a result, there was often a line of girls standing beside my table, waiting their turn. most of them gave me a curious look as i sat alone, hunched over my notebook. many eyed my backpack and guitar with puzzled expressions. one woman in particular, though, looked at me as if she were trying to place me, as if she knew me from the past, and her eyebrows tilted as she searched her memory. i saw her several times throughout the evening, and noticed her more and more each time she stood in line. finally, after the fourth or fifth time, she took the seat across from me. “mind if i sit here?”

“not at all.”

her name was eliza, and she wondered where i was traveling from. i told her my story, how i was heading to europe, and how i hoped to get down to spain, maybe morocco, you know, just let the road take me where it pleases. eliza worked at a museum, and was planning to attend graduate school in the fall. before long, i revealed that i had just vacated my apartment, and that i would be homeless for the next month, until i boarded my plane in san francisco. i explained how i worked nights at a hotel and planned to shower and take naps there, and get as much sleep as i could in parks during the day. i had quite a beer buzz by this time, and i was exciteable, almost boastful, as i narrated my plans. eliza seemed to share my enthusiasm, and smiled with wide eyes as she learned of my predicament. “sounds like quite an adventure!” she said, and put her hand on my shoulder.

eliza bought another pitcher, and we got lost in conversation as we shared the beer. we talked about books and movies and school and traveling and goals and dreams and politics and swapped funny stories from our childhood. by the end of the pitcher, though, i was pretty drunk, and i became suddenly meloncholy. the image of grandpa on his hind legs at the grocery store rushed to mind, and i couldn’t shake it. as eliza and i sat in silence for the first time that night, i found it impossible to hide my emotion. a tear snuck out of the corner of my eye, and rolled down my cheek. eliza noticed immediately.

the next thing i knew, i was telling her the story of grandpa. i told her about how he just appeared on my porch one night, and how he howled and howled to get in. how he followed me to work and then found his way back to my apartment. i explained to her how grandpa frightened off the muggers and the beggars in my neighborhood, and how he kept watch at the end of my driveway. i told her about giving him a bath for the first time and buying him food, and how he would attack other dogs in the park, and how he would wait patiently on the sidewalk whenever i went into a store. i told her the entire story, from beginning to end, leaving grandpa tied up to a picnic table ouside of a the grocery store, without a clue as to what will happen to him, if he’ll find a loving home, or end up in a shelter, or back on the bum. eliza was shocked. “you just left him tied up in front of whole foods?!”

“yeah,” i said, “i figure a lot of people who can afford to have a dog probably shop there. and probably a lot of people with bleeding hearts who couldn’t pass on adopting an affectionate stray.”

“why didn’t you post a flyer around town? or put an ad in a newspaper?”

“i didn’t think of it.”

eliza was cross with me, and we sat in silence, slowly slipping our beers. “i think he’s got a good shot,” i finally added. “especially with the love poem on his collar.”

“oh yeah? a love poem? what did it say?”

i retrieved my notebook from my bag and produced my copy of the poem. i asked eliza to imagine that she had just come out of the grocery store and found a very sweet dog with long bangs and long eyelashes, wagging his tail as she approached. “if you read this poem,” i asked, “do you think you’d take him home?”

eliza read the poem and slid the notebook back to me. “it’s cute,” she said, and the smile returned to her face.

the bartender called last call and the staff began gathering up empty glasses from around the room, reminding all the patrons it was time to finish up. eliza and i finished our drinks in an uncomfortable silence. we both looked around the room for a bit, caught one another’s eyes, and then giggled softly. “are you really planning to sleep in tilden park tonight?” she asked.

“that’s the plan.”

“well, you don’t have to,” said eliza. “you can stay at my place if you want. i live by myself, in a studio, a few blocks from here. i don’t think i can put you up for a whole MONTH or anything, but you can stay at my place tonight. for sure. and if you need some place to take a nap during weekdays once in a while, well, i don’t know, maybe we could work something out. i’m at work all day, you know, so the place will be empty most of the time. it may as well get used. . .“

i stayed with eliza for the next week. she gave me a key to her apartment and i slept in her empty bed each afternoon while she was at the museum. i worked at the hotel each evening and studied spanish verbs and took cat naps on my hands and forearms, drooling on my desk. every so often i’d look at the front door of the hotel, and expect grandpa to appear. i wondered about him constantly. despite all the mystery, though, i was optimistic. we were both strays, after all. we were both alone, without a home, getting by however we could, hoping with all of our might that someone good might take us in. with little more than a poem in my hand, i had promptly found four walls, and a new friend. i tried to convince myself that the same had happened to him.

at the end of our second saturday together, eliza informed me that i had to move on. she had some visitors coming from out of town for a week, and then she was heading to mexico for spring break. she wished she could let me stay, but she had already promised another friend the opportunity to housesit for her while she was away. i thanked her for her hospitality and gave her a hug. it was a chilly sunday afternoon, but i wasn’t afraid. i knew the public library would be warm.

i saw some difficult days, and some sleeplessness. i was perpetually tired. i grew frustrated and bored as it poured rain outside, for three days and nights, sometimes sitting in campus stairwells for hours, sick of playing the guitar and sick of reading, just sick and staring at the walls. my shoulders and back ached from constantly lugging my things, and i felt slightly naseaus all the time from eating so many slices of pizza. i had bug bites all over my neck and arms from lying in long grass, and occasionally i got no sleep at all, especially when my sleeping bag wasn’t thick enough to shield me from a really chilly wind.

but my luck would change. by the end of the month, i was warm and comfortable again, in a flat in san francisco, staying with an older woman i met one afternoon at a cafe. she let me stay for free in exchange for chores, such as cleaning her bathroom and hanging shower curtains, mopping her floors, and watering her plants. on april 1st, she even saw me to my plane. in the month after leaving my apartment in oakland, sometimes i was adopted, and sometimes i was a stray. and all i could do was sigh as i flew away, looking from the airplane window down at the city and the bay. at the life i once lived, fading away. . .


well, a dozen years have passed since i left my newspaper job and my hotel shift and my first apartment in oakland and the old dog who stayed there with me. without a doubt, grandpa has passed on by now. i can only imagine how much longer he lived or how he spent his final days, months, or even years. i like to think that he found something better than i could have ever provided.

my brief experience with grandpa has never left my mind. i think about him all the time. to this day, whenever i’m in the bay area, i catch myself suddenly euphoric, staring at some tall furball, with long eyelashes and bangs. as unrealistic as it it, for a moment i am sure i see him. he walks by on leashes on the sidewalk, or jogs by in the park. i look at the people who accompany him -- the happy families, the caring young men, or the old women who can’t keep their hands off of him. and my heart is filled with a bittersweet rage, a swirling of so much happiness and so much pain. yes, i hope the poem did the trick. i hope everything worked out for him. grandpa may have never been my dog, but he was a great friend.