I am in the market for a dog.
Apparently, word got around that I was holding an open casting call. An incorrect word, that is.
About a month ago, a dog showed up on our street. My next door neighbor, Mary, says he followed her dog, Lily, home.
The dog is smitten with Lily. He does not appear to be here for sexual reasons. But who knows with dogs -- or Bill Clinton? For the first couple of weeks he hung out under Mary's van waiting for Lily to come out to play.
He then moved his affections to me. Or to my house. He sleeps in the cool of my porch and in the landscaping to avoid the heat of the day.
I made the mistake of petting him. He is incredibly friendly. A pat or a rub behind the ears is proof positive that I have adopted him -- in his eyes. And he does have great eyes. The type where you can see to the furthest reaches of his soul.
What Mary and I cannot figure out is where he eats. I have caught him trash surfing on the corner. But he is far too sleek to be living off of the orts of Mexican take-out.
Both of us have seen him hanging out in front of a house that fosters animals for my former landlady's rescue organization. They say they have not been feeding him, and had come to the same conclusion as had I -- he belongs to someone, but spends most of his day paw-loose.
There are several dogs like that around the bay. Like Blanche Dubois, they live off of the kindness of strangers, but belong to no one. They are the free spirits of Merle's Door.
I will confess that I like this dog's attentions. Like most of his species, he is the ultimate manipulator.
But I have plans of my own for a dog. I may buy a golden retriever pup up north when I return from Red China.
Or not. That is another story.
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