Awaiting daybreak

I will be traveling today, on a mission to relieve my mother of some porch furniture she no longer wants. I'll be listing a few items, including Fido's old dog crate, with my local Freecycle group, in order to make room.

I feel reluctant to go but I do need to get out of this town, out of this house, away from this dog, if just for a day.

Blameless, blameless, innocent dog. And she's still so damned beautiful to look at. I mean, if people selected dogs the way they select shoes or purses or wristwatches, Zenzi is precisely my style. If she were inanimate, if I could sling her over my shoulder, if I could wear her jauntily, she would be ideal.

So.

My fantasy is that the doorbell rings. Zenzi takes off, a barking rocket, to see who it is. At the door, I've got her by the collar, commanding OFF-SIT-DOWN-WAIT, which she ignores. I open the door anyway.

On my stoop is a weather-worn silver-haired man. Not very tall, broad shoulders, cinched waist. Compact, taught, solid, strong.

Skinny, fading but creased and tatterless Levis, button-down starch-collared blue striped shirt. Tucked in, of course.

Braided black leather belt, black square-toed cowboy boots.

I haven't decided yet about his glasses. I'm thinking Ray Ban aviators, but they're either perched atop his crew cut or slipped into his shirt pocket. He's polite like that. He wants me to see the honesty and kindness of his clear blue eyes.

He says, "Good morning."

I say, "I'm sorry. She won't bite, I promise -- unless you've got a schnauzer in your hip pocket."

He says, "Sit."

She sits.

He says, "Stay."

She stays.

I say, "Wow. That's never happened before."

He says, "I'm here for my dog."

"Pardon?"

"She's mine. There was a fuck-up. You got her. I was supposed to get her. I had dibs. Car trouble. Goddamned Toyota."

"I don't see a Toyota. I don't see a car at all."

"I walked. 156 miles."

"But you look so ... fresh and crisp."

"Good posture, good hydration. You should try it."

"Would you like a glass of water?"

"Thank you, no. I'm just here for my dog. Please."

"You really don't want her."

"Of course I want her. She's mine. She's was always mine. It took me forever to find her, and now I've found her, and it's up to you to do the right thing, so just do the goddamned right thing, lady, so I can hit the road and get back to my quiet, solitary life."

I'm speechless.

He continues, "Look. I'm a retired marine drill sargeant -- no wife, no kids, no cats. I'm off the grid. I pick up my mail monthly from a PO box. I raise ostriches. I like my life but it won't be complete until you let me have my dog. Goddamn foxes are always after my flock. Zenzi's late for work."

And since he's put it that way, "Zenzi's late for work," I have to let her go.

Sun's up in 13 minutes. Time to kiss MrZ goodbye.