He wears worn out blue Dickies work pants and an equally faded work shirt topped off with a nondescript cap. The cap covers most of his greasy cigarette stained white hair and shades his rheumy eyes. Every visible piece of skin is covered in thick psoriasis scabs. Many of them weep and ooze. His hands are ancient crustaceans scuttling into his pockets or picking at bits of skin. I've seen him hunched over his knees dripping spittle onto the sidewalk. No one speaks to him, including me. I have made eye contact with him before, but it doesn't seem to mean much. I often wonder what it would be like to sit down next to him and say something. Anything. I am scared of this man and I am ashamed of my reaction to his existence.
I was at Mocha Joe's yesterday enjoying a rejuvenating chai tea and piece of carrot cake before dinner. A dog sat quietly under a table being man's best friend. This dog's black fur gleamed and beckoned to be stroked. I couldn't resist petting her silky fur and whispering lovely things to her shy, quiet face. I could have sat and petted her for hours. I commented about her beautiful coat and her human told me the dog had pretty much eaten nothing but salmon for her entire life.
Lucky dog.
Hi Jennifer,
ReplyDeletei like your blog.
Your writing made me realise that i'm more comfortable with my dog than with certain people. Maybe because some people pass judgement, or pour criticism on what i say and Bernie my dog, just listens. What he thinks about my doings and sayings is another matter of course. ;)
And then there's the uncomfortable point you make about some people living in conditions worse than those set for dogs. I guess luck does come into how we end up, but maybe a person has more ability than a dog to change his or her destiny.
Just some thoughts your writing triggered.
Catherine (Mediterrean Tortoise)