Bozo the Dog

I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store. It was late morning and threatening to rain. I saw a young and thin man with long black hair hanging out with his tan dog who looked like a little lion. They were kitted out for the road, the road of the New American Diaspora that is all around us.

I parked near the man and popped the trunk. I dug out two cans of dog food from the emergency stash I always carry to help out the transients’ dogs when the opportunity arises, which is almost daily. I asked the man if he could use some food for the dog. His face exploded into smile and he said, “Sure, thanks brother!”

He jogged over to me to get the cans. He thanked me again and said he loved this town. I started walking to the store when I heard him playing with the dog and asking it what can he wanted to eat! (There were two brands.) He set the cans on the asphalt and let the dog choose, talking up one brand, then another, really egging on the dog. The dog made a show of the choosing and was barking and running around the cans.

It made me deliriously happy to observe this in the midst of the increasing delirium engulfing much of the United States.

When I returned from shopping, the dog was grubbing out and the man was sitting on the asphalt and playing on his phone. I asked the dog’s name.

Bozo. Of course!

He called me brother again and we told each other to take care.