One night during the dark of the moon,
I walked home from an evening
session teaching someone to read
symbols, tired, thinking about how thought
is communicated by picture, by position and movement,
thinking about a little deaf girl I am related to by adoption, about how
she learns to sign and speak, about her love of dogs, about a dog I had to leave
out at the Reservation where, until recently, I lived, how I got an apartment in town to make working and writing easier…

and then halfway down the hill along the river, a dog barked at me from across the road. I stopped wandering, stopped my feet and turned to pay attention to the dog. She sat on the sidewalk, where the dim edges of light from two street lamps met. It is unusual in this area of the city to see a dog running loose. She was a big, young, mixed-breed. In the light of the street lamp her coat seemed a light tan. She barked again. Twice: sharp bites of air. Her tail did not move. I spoke to her a little sharply; told her no, I am not a threat.

I started walking down hill again. I spoke again, forcing a soothing, quiet voice. Good dog. It’s ok. I kept walking, an even, calm gait. Where I lived on the Reservation there are a lot of feral dogs. Many are more than willing to reestablish ties with human beings, but some are not. Some are dangerous, whether from old histories of their own, or from a sense of possession of space and food sources into which human beings fit only as a threat. Her tail didn’t move, her body was tense but her lips had not pulled back to expose her teeth and so I didn’t know if she just wasn’t sure which kind of human I was or if she didn’t know if she could best me in some territorial dispute. I kept walking because normally if you get out of an animal’s personal territory he or she will simply forget you exist and you can walk out in peace. She didn’t stop though. She came across the road, circled round me, got behind me, her body a little jerky from the tension of her not-knowing who and what I was going to be to her. When she got within twelve feet of me I stopped and turned sideways to her, slid my heavy bag off my back and into my right hand. I gripped it hard, looping the shoulder strap around my hand. I sighed. I do not like fighting if I can avoid it. Good girl. Good dog. I moved a few more feet down the hill; she followed. I spoke a little sharper. Mind your manners and I will mind mine. I will hit you if you come at me. In this way we came inside the block where my building sits on its earth shelf half way up the steep river bank.

She had been creeping closer to me as we moved in tandem down the hill. I turned, stopped and faced her with my bag clenched in my hand, my arm just slightly extended to allow for a strong swing should I need it. When she got to a place about four feet from me she stopped and sat. She looked at me. Didn’t bark; didn’t move her tail. I lowered the bag and stared back. Ok, so what? I asked the dog. I stood there for a while, maybe as much as two minutes, her looking at me, me looking back. You want some food? By this time I could see her clearly under the street lamp. She had a collar, looked healthy and well fed. It seemed clear that she was a house dog, probably just out for a night walk with an owner frantically calling for her dog. I kept up the conversation and walked to my front door, put down my bag, got out my keys and unlocked the door. Wait a minute; I’ll get some food for you. I went in, put my stuff on the floor and got a bowl of food. I came back out. She waited by the door. I put some Kibble out for her, sat in the little plastic chair on the concrete pad in front of my ground floor apartment, about two feet from where I had put the food, and then waited while the dog decided what she wanted to do.

I sat there for about ten minutes. At first she ignored the food. She went around the back of the building, checked out the woods which my living room windows overlook, looked at the road that kept going down the hill, smelled the garbage cans, clicked back along the concrete sidewalk, her nails tat tat tatting up to where I waited. Then she lowered her head to the food dish. She lifted it again without eating, walked over to me and placed her head in my lap. I rubbed her ears, smoothed the brown hair down along the crown of her head. She stood there receiving attention; I talked. So what now? I can’t have a dog here. I have two cats who wouldn’t like you at all. I rubbed her ears. Come by now and then; I’ll leave food. I felt for her collar, her id tag, felt that and her rabies tag. I patted her shoulder. After about another five minutes I went inside. As I went in I said be careful. She left, trotting down the hill, without eating the food.

The next day I came outside, just after the light came, to drink my coffee. The food was gone. Maybe the dog ate it, but I think it was probably the skunk or badger, or some of the outside cats around here, or if the food was still there in the morning, maybe it was the flock of starlings. They really like cat food. About a week or two later, coming home from a workshop, I saw her—on a bright green leash being led by a woman in her early 30s. I waved. I think the woman thought I was waving at her.