les errants

You call Chris a little after 2pm.

Hey, come meet me at Tricia’s, there’s a dog that needs our help.

Chris shows up quicker than he’s ever shown up after a call. He must have raced across town. You and Tricia are in her back yard, looking through a gap in the chain-linked fence.

He’s been out there all weekend.

Chris looks through the fence at the young German Shepherd. It can’t be more than six months old.

Have you tried the front door? Is anybody home?

No. Nobody’s home, the dog’s been out there for two days with only a water dish. We think he’s been abandoned.

You look at Chris with a face that says, you owe me.

You have to do something.

Chris sighs. He does owe you. He’s been living in your apartment for almost a year now. You haven’t asked him for anything – ever. He was essentially homeless when you met. He’d been couch surfing for over a year and he was barely making ends meet as a part-time barista and full-time unpaid poet. Lately, he’s been hinting that you should both get a place together, but you’re not sure. It’s only been three months since you lost the baby, and you’re not convinced he’s your forever friend.

I’ll get him, he says.

Chris walks around to the front yard, knocks on the door, and when no one answers, he walks around to the back yard and unleashes the dog from the tree and the worn-out grass circle that the puppy had worn into the dry thatch.

The three of you pile into Chris’s late model piece of shit with you and the dog in the back. You’ve always wanted a dog – and this pup is so great! He’s got a lolling tongue and bright eyes. You already picked out a name for him – Sullivan. You smile at Chris and he is beaming. It seems like he has done some good.

Later that afternoon, after the dog has eaten your hand-me-down sofa and half of your rug. Your collective sighs and frustration becomes an implicit decision that the dog can’t stay. Chris will deliver him to the animal shelter the next morning. You call to find the shelter’s hours the voice on the other end tells you that they’re open for another half hour. You tell Chris and he bolts out the door with the dog, eager to get it off his hands.

You’re left alone, unsure of what has happened and you’re more lonely than you’ve ever been in your life. You’re not sure how you let everything go astray.

Chris proposes to you three days later. You’re still upset about the dog, but at least he’s put forth some effort on the ring – he’s been saving for three months.

The following weekend, Chris suggests that you come with him to downtown Gresham. He heard there’s a pet store there that occasionally re-homes strays.

When you found him, you almost missed him. In the back of the top center cage, he was little more than curled up shadow – you thought the cage was empty except for a shadow – he was invisible. You walked away and were heading out the door when you heard a faint mew.

You back-tracked and looked deeper inside. Mewing gently was a three-ounce shit stain of what could be a kitten. He was greasy, more skeleton than cat – more like an underfed bird.

You’d have to hand feed him brown paste from a tube for the next two weeks. You named him Kramer. He’s been your cat for nine years.