The dog didn’t bark

BY TRISH STACHELSKI

The dog doesn’t want to come in. She sleeps in the rain, watches the fence for intruders. I try to coax her in with bits of ham, or cheese—she acknowledges the scent of meat, but abstains. Something stronger calls her to remain at the doorstop in the wind and rain, to settle into the crisp air, the scent of oak and maple leaves, the thousands of scents alive for a dog that no human can know. I admit I’m content to come in, to close the door on the cold. It’s hard to imagine not having that choice.

Two weeks ago, on a Saturday morning in the dog park near the river, I startled three people in sleeping bags. My dog bristled and snorted at the oddity, much like a deer does when startled by a human in the woods. The sleepers awoke, acknowledged the new day, and then returned to sleep. I’ve often seen bowers of sticks stacked as makeshift shelters. I always thought it was the work of imaginative children. Perhaps it was adults all along, preparing a night shelter for themselves. Perhaps they are drawn to the tall trees, the sheltered hillside and the added protection of dogs.

When I lived in La Paz, Bolivia, it was the custom in many neighborhoods to take care of the homeless. The same people knocked at the gate or waited at the end of the block for a bit of bread, bananas or change. Restaurants in the city saved leftovers for the regulars who came by. Lately it’s clear that a bit of bread no longer does the trick.

The other week, ahead of the Minneapolis sanitation crew, a man in a recent model pickup truck came through the alley. He stopped to take the lamp the neighbors had put out as garbage. He told me he was a landscaper out of work. He looks for scrap, especially metal, to sell. All his friends are doing the same. There’s another man who walks the alley pushing a cart laden with a huge bag of aluminum cans. He checks the recycling bin behind my garage. Since he’s become a regular in our alley, the dog does not bark. I wish I had something more to give him.