mmmmxxxvi

The Stray Dog

I’m no fan of sad stories.
I’d say that inspirational
is more what I’m seeking
when I turn on the teevee

or pick up a book or settle
in for an evening out with,
say, a slightly windy friend

(and I can say this, of course,
nights, it’s been quite a
significant number of years
since I’ve had such a pleasure).

It’s not that I don’t have a
heart. I’d say that my
general tendency to
avoid heartbreaking

stories that seem at their
very center to be but
about that, the breaking
of the heart, because, and

you can rest assured, that
I have seen a fair share
of heartbreak myself.
I mean, haven’t we all?

These things in actual life
cannot be utterly avoided.
I’d take it a step further, to
be honest, and suggest that

these stories exist out of truth
and necessity, that because such
things in reality are so unavoidable,
perhaps they are a sort of preparation

or assistance, a means by which we
might open our minds and our ears
to such inevitabilities. Whatever
the case, my tendency is toward

not adding to the wealth of these
tear-jerking narratives. However,
as sometimes is the case, I did,
and recently, find myself the

sole receptor of one such story
during a virtual conversation with
someone to who I’d willingly
listen to a million such stories.

Because that is just how much
I love and appreciate this
particular person. And thusly,
I found myself caught up in the

gut-wrenching true tale of a once-
stray dog named Dulce. And
after I’d listened to this horrific tale,
which I’ll not recount here because,

well, it’s really just too horrible
and, as I mentioned earlier, it does
not seem my calling to do so. I
much prefer to relay such things

that offer at least a morsel of hope,
or give such gifts that, within, have
at the very least a granule or a
little seed of inspiration. And so,

instead, I’ll briefly tell you the
story of how I lost a cat who’d
been my companion for well
over a decade. Her name is

(or, perhaps, more aptly, was,
although, for better or worse,
I’ve no true way of knowing for
certain whether it’s “is” or “was”

that is more appropriate) Coco,
which is short for Coco the Loco.
And she turned (or would have?)
sixteen years old this past, let’s

see, it would be February. She
and I had just been evicted from
the home we’d shared for a decade,
give or take. It was our third night

without a home. The first of those
nights I had slept in a very fitful
state in the park just down the
hill from my old apartment, a

fairly famous park in a fairly
well-known city, that stays quite
busy during the day, but at night,
although sleeping in it is simply

not allowed, it is cold and barren
and lonely. The second night
without a home, we had spent
in a bit of a dreamlike state in

a homeless shelter, wherein,
when I awoke, I found most of my
shelter-mates gathered joyously
around my tote bag, a bag from

which Coco’s tiny head had popped,
becoming visible to my compatriots,
sometime before I had awoke. But
back to night number three without

a home: it’s cold and windy in the city,
and I’m sleeping aslant, my head at
the higher end on the slope of the hill
upon which, about a block and half up,

existed our home of a decade or so.
I’d made sure Coco was comfy and
snug in my tote bag, which was
rather large, and because of the

wind, I had placed between me
and the curb of the sidewalk upon
which I had finally fallen asleep.
When I awoke shortly before dawn,

that bag was gone. In its place
were two unopened plastic bottles
of water. As I was puzzling over
where I was and what might have

happened, I remembered, as if it
were a bad dream of some sort,
that there had at one point been
a trio of people who walked up or

down the hill, passing us by. This
would not have been unusual, as
we were, after all, spending the
night on a sloping city sidewalk.

But I felt that I could recall this
trio of younger people who made
such noise when they passed it was
as if they were dressed to the nines.

That memory, from a dream or
reality, included the timbre of
their three voices, two men,
it seemed, and one woman. I

will never be certain whether or
not this partial memory even occurred,
of course, but I sensed from the voices
and the swiftness with which they were

walking, that there was some urgency,
perhaps even some conflict. Did they
stop right around where I lay sleeping
for a bit? If so, it was not for long,

before they were off, and with a
quickening pace. Shortly after that,
there had come the sound of the
screeching of wheels. Then, silence.

I honestly have no real idea if any
thing like what I felt that I had
recalled had actually occurred, but
one thing was certain: the tote bag,

along with all that I had kept from
our home of many years, along with
my companion, the cat I called Coco,
were gone. And ever since that fateful

night when we parted ways, I’ve
imagined dozens of mostly hopeful,
if not fantastical, but each and all
completely fictionalized paths down

or up which Coco may have taken
from that moment to this one. And
that’s my story, really. The story of
how Coco the Loco and I parted ways.

And while it’s sad, and could indeed
be tragic, if only we knew what truly
happened to her, my story of Coco
will remain hopeful. And so, it is

in her honor and memory, as well
as for the memory of Dulce the
dog, whose seemingly tragic story,
as told to me, was surely and

hopefully not the only thing
about her, that I tell this story
now. I want to think that Dulce
lived at least a reasonably satisfying

life? As for Coco, I can attest
that she was a bit neurotic, but,
to my mind, as far as cats go,
she had at least a decade that

was interspersed with a plentiful
amount of giddiness alongside
heaping dollops of greater-than-
thou contentment. Just in case

my point here needs, with any
more clarity, to be made, these
lines tonight go out with much love
and respect to Dulce the dog, gone

too soon, and to Coco the Loco,
who, whether she knows it (or
knew it) or not, is and was a cat,
and a loved and lovely one, at that.