Strays

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Once we got a block away from the strip, the night was quiet and cool. It’s funny how when things are busy around you like me running my scam in front of 7-Eleven, you think the whole world is like that, but then you walk a few blocks and it’s entirely different. We walked four blocks down a side street, and then she opened the door to a basement apartment in an old house that smelled like the rhododendrons in front of it. I followed her inside, and she opened the can, put it in a bowl and set it on the floor. It wasn’t bad, but I knew it would give me gas. She also put a bowl of water next to the chili, and it tasted best of all after a long day in the sun.

She left the door open to air out the musky smell of cigarettes and sex, and I could leave any time after I finished, but I didn’t particularly feel like going anywhere. That can of chili was like a lead brick in my gut, so I put my head down and closed my eyes for a moment. It felt good to rest in a quiet spot without any traffic sounds around, a little confining but I was too tired for it to bother me. I must’ve nodded off, because again her voice woke me.

“Okay, Pimpster, I’m going to shut this door now.” She had her hand on the faded brass knob. “Are you staying or going? I don’t want you waking me up because you want to take off night-crawling with your buddies.”

I’d been having a dream where I was chasing this cat down an alley. It was a recurring dream, and I’d gotten to the part where the cat disappeared amongst the overflowing dumpsters leaking restaurant grease and I had to search him out with my nose, so I was eager to get back to sleep, back to my dream, and back after that cat. That cat was a mean piece of work, and the natural order of things drove me to take him down, so I just closed my eyes and let her close the door.

She slept late and so did I, and as soon as she opened that door, I went outside and got rid of some of that canned chili and marked the trees out in front of the old house. When I heard her making noise in her kitchen, I went inside and was treated to a bowl of scrambled eggs, something I’d never had before, and they were a big improvement on the chili. A while later we walked back to the 7-Eleven, and she got in a car with some guy and they took off. I fell into my routine of hustling the 7-Eleven customers for some of their chips, though I wasn’t quite as motivated since I’d just eaten a bunch of eggs, and eventually I curled up and took a nap. The cat had returned in my dream, and I’d discovered which Dumpster he was hiding behind, when the fat man from animal services woke me by slipping a noose collar around my neck, and I was tethered to the end of the long pole he held firmly with both hands.

All I could think was that I was on my way back into the system again, and this time it wouldn’t be so easy to get out. My puppy cuteness was gone, and I had both physical and emotional scars from living on the street. At least I knew not to bite the rubber hand they used to temperament test the dogs being processed into the the pound, even though its rubber skin smelled just like a chew toy I’d had in my first home as a puppy.

I was being led to the back of the truck when I heard her shouting. “Hey, you! Asshole! Where the fuck you think you’re going with my dog?” The car she’d just gotten out of drove off behind her, and she was waiving her arms and marching right at the fat man holding the noose-pole.

“This isn’t your dog,” he said.

“Like hell he isn’t.”

“Well, he doesn’t have a license, and you don’t have him on a leash.”

“Look around, man. Do you think anyone gives a damn about leashes and licenses around here? Get real.”

Then a big man carrying an eighteen-pack came out of the 7-Eleven, stopped and stood very still, staring at the fat man. When another dog did that to me, they meant trouble. “If she says he’s her dog, man, he’s her dog,” he said.

The fat man shifted his weight uneasily under the intensity of his stare. “I’m going to cite you for failure to license your dog and having him off-leash. It’s a pretty hefty fine. Are you sure this is still your dog?”

The big man with the beer set his eighteen-pack down, squatted down next to me and gave me a pat. Before the fat man knew what to say, the big man had loosened the noose, and I was free. “There you go, boy,” he said and thumped me on the rump.

“Sir, you can’t do that.”

The big man stood to his full height. “It’s already done.” He tucked a few bills into the fat man’s shirtfront pocket. “You look like you could use a break. Why don’t you go on inside and get yourself a couple of those chili dogs they sell here.” He picked up his beer and opened the door to a big car. “Come on, babe,” he said to my friend. “Get your dog and get in. I feel like having a party.”

As she hustled me onto the car seat in front of her, she whispered to me, “You owe me one, Pimpster.”

“Pimpster, huh?” the big man said and chuckled. “That’s my kind of dog.”

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