Man's Best Friend

DAY TWENTY-FIVE

04.04.25 Friday of the Fourth Week of Lent

Today I went out just as the sun was coming up, the orb still below the horizon though shedding sufficient light. My friend Corey has gifted me with two extra garden carts so I decided to get them into the hands of the neighbors. As I left the yard, the smaller camouflage one sat inside the more stout Gorilla steel cart, a bag of redeemable cans nestled into the upper cart.

My first visit was with two men in the bus-stop shelter at Hawthorne on Market. They had a small stack of twigs in one corner and a fire burning in a coffee can in the middle. The Hispanic man I’d seen on one other occasion but he wasn’t interested in talking. Dakota, on the other hand, was more than ready to share.

“I love that camouflage cart you’ve got there and used to have one just like it. I ran it into the ground where there was no longer any rubber on the wheels, just plastic scraping the sidewalks. Mine wasn’t camo, but that is a thing of beauty.” I told him it was his to use. “Love it, I’ll use it every day and put it to good use. Remind me of my time in the military.”

This was the first time I met this particular Dakota. He had on an orange sweatshirt below a thicker black jacket, both well-worn. His long greying beard was held together at his chin with a thick rubber band, the leftovers flowing down sporadically. Multiple earrings hanging off his left ear gave him a weighted look; like he was going to swerve in that direction when walking. The most striking part of his repertoire, though, was a pink hand-held Ms Pac-Man game. On the side of it, he’d written his high score of 19028 and his second best of 19016. He’d Sharpied other graffiti on it, the meaning of which was hard to discern.

“Look at this thing! I got it a couple of days ago down at a thrift store and it works like it was made yesterday. All the levers work perfectly and if you want to watch me play for a bit, you’ll be able to see I’m going to get to 2 million points (his understanding of 20,000 was 2 million) soon. I almost got there already, remember.”

As we were talking I moved the burning can further into the middle of the shelter with a nudge of my boot since its whipping flames were in danger of melting the bench. A slight woman who looked somewhat lost walked up and asked “Is this the bus stop? Is it safe?””

She and I got to talking while Dakota returned to his quest for 2 million points. Turns out her daughter is a senior in high school in the Bay Area and just got accepted to attend college at Willamette University in the fall. She was in town to vet out the surroundings and I think the men in the shelter were a major concern for her. “I get it. We live in a part of the Bay Area where there are lots of homeless too. We know how to navigate and while we’re with her that’s one thing, but she’s our child, you know? We can’t be with her everywhere and want her to be safe. Do you have children?” she asked.

“I don’t have any kids of my own, but come out here on occasion to be with the homeless population.” I turned to Dakota. “The public transportation company is very generous with the homeless community. Many of these shelters act as spots to sleep in the night when the busses stop running and then employees come around to invite the homeless to move along once the busses start running again.” She didn’t seem convinced, though was grateful for the explanation as she departed.

Dakota set down his game for a moment and picked up his backpack by loop sewn at the top. It was olive green with an American flag sticking out the top. “Lift this thing onto your shoulder, see how heavy that is?” Indeed it was well packed and stuffed to the gills. “The fucking zippers are all tearing out since I’m putting so much stuff in there. Now, I’ll just toss it in the cart and forget about the zippers. You just saved me another trip to the thrift store.” I suspect he’ll be heading there again soon, perhaps in search of another portable video game. I’m glad he’ll be able to use the cart.

Mike was tucked under his sleeping bag when I came to his spot behind the off-ramp signal from the I-5. I didn’t want to wake him so I left his drinks next to the Sudoku book laid open on top of his cart.

I was getting ready for a bathroom visit so I headed in the direction of Fred Meyer. Before I turned the corner, a skinny older man came in my direction with abundant worry on his face. I didn’t recognize him until he began to speak. Allen I’ve met on a few occasions with his wife Nanette in tow. He's very hard to understand due to his lack of teeth and the way he eats his words. I had to strain to comprehend him.

“They killed him, my dog, the cops, they shot him.” His eyes were full of tears and he was distraught. “I went into Denny’s this morning to eat some breakfast but when the waiter came I just looked at him and got up and left. I’m too depressed to eat. They shot him, the cops shot him.” I asked him to tell me the whole story. “About two weeks ago we were down near the waterfront and the cops picked me up and put me in the back of their car. They had an outstanding warrant for me so I had to go to jail. They picked up the dogs, took them down to the pound, and killed them. Why? That dog never hurt a soul and we loved him.”

I remember his black and white pit bull, Buddy. The last time I’d seen them all together was at the same shelter where I ran into Dakota this morning. On that occasion, Buddy had jumped all over me before Allen pulled him off and turned his affection toward some dog jerky he was giving him.

“All I need is some work. Washing windows, anything. But today at noon I have to get to the end of the Lancaster line somehow to see my PO. I’ll be on paper for another three months if I do everything they tell me. But Buddy. Why did they have to kill our dog?”

There wasn’t a paragraph of speech today which didn’t include laments about his dog. I asked him where Nanette was. “She’s staying in the hotel, we got it for the night. Do you want to see her, let’s go.” So I walked with him down to the hotel entrance and he invited me into their room. Nanette was lying under the covers, the television playing loudly in the foreground. She looked tired, her balding head laid to the side.

Allen let me use their bathroom. When I came out he handed me a Bible and asked me to show them how to find healing in the Scripture. It was one of those moments where I felt put on the spot and the spot didn’t fit. So I simply asked if we might pray, which we did, and Allen seemed calmer, and more at ease afterward. I gave him enough cash to get to his PO as Nanette kept telling him “Let him go, he’s helped enough. Let him go.”

I left the second cart and cans with him for a bit of extra sustenance. He was overly grateful as I took off and I just hope he made it to his PO meeting.

I had to do some banking when my bank opened at 9 so I walked slowly to the south on Lancaster. In the parking lot next to Fred Meyer, a homeless man occupied one of the parking spots with his cart and bedding. He was packing up and prepping to move along.

Further along, I came to the shrubbery of the US Market Headquarters. These bushes are carved into the letters US MKT HQ, each piece of greenery uniquely manicured. I noticed behind them a figure leaning up against a bicycle rack. His head was pitching forward and backward as though he were awake yet falling asleep.

To his left was a large blue knobby item which at first glance I thought was a 1.5 liter bottle of wine. As I got closer I noticed it was rather his removed prosthetic leg. I stood there and prayed for him awhile as I often do and as also often happens he jolted awake after a bit.

It was Matthew, a man I briefly encountered near the Bottle Drop a few months ago. He told me again the story of being run over by a car and having his left leg ripped off. He also has a mental disability which one discerns after a short time. He didn’t have anything with him, no cart, no sleeping bag. Hanging around his neck was a black Peekachoo fanny pack, the yellow mythical creature depicted multiple times amid turquoise flecks.

We didn’t say much to one another as I crouched down next to him. He was at ease and so I simply joined him for part of his morning. When I got up to make my way further, he said “Thank you.”

On a lamppost nearby, I read through a posting from LostMyDoggie.com. The owner was looking for their Golden Yellow Lab named Milo. There was a picture of the dog on the ocean beach, his tongue licking the bridge of his nose, a yellow fleck in his right eye. Written at the bottom was a phone number, then an offer of a $500 reward. He looks very sweet and I hope they find him.

After doing my banking, I called my friend David, a man I met recently at church. He's living on a fixed income and was making his way from Safeway to Fred Meyer since Safeway had raised the price of kitty litter. “Gina deserves the good stuff, nothing but the best for my girl.” Gina is his emotional support cat, keeping him calm throughout the day, and resting with him at night.

“Hey, do you think I can come over to your house and use the laundry facilities? My payee just gave me a bit of a raise but if I can save on going to the laundromat, that would be a big help. I can just put my stuff in a cart and walk to your house since walking is the best thing for me.” We made an appointment for him to come by in the afternoon, to hang out and save a couple of bucks. At some point, I may tell David’s story in these pages if he gives permission. His story of grace reveals a resilience I’ve rarely seen elsewhere.