It Happened...

One day, there was a dog – a little Shih Tzu with a name only he knew – strolling along a naked ravine unquenched by the summer drought. At the end of the ravine, embedded in moss-covered concrete slabs, there sat a drainage pipe rusted orange. Woof-woof, thought the dog, panting out the scalding mid-afternoon day. Perhaps he was excited to watch the turtledoves drink from what little the ravine had left to give. He padded towards the potential companions, his tail dancing back and forth as his floppy brown ears flapped in the breeze. But these were not the friends he sought, for as he moved upon them, the turtledoves screeched out and up towards the burning ball in the sky. He then lowered his head and busied himself by sniffing along the concrete to play off his embarrassment at the stark display of rejection.

Like a shotgun blast blown up his nostrils, a tantalizing odor reached his hypersensitive olfactory nerve. It was that of sweat and ink, moldy cheese and bitters. Well, woof- whimper-woof, thought the dog as his tail approached speedboat velocity. With a trot, he made his way to the far end of the concrete channel where he found a rather large pile of money – about $20,000 by a dog’s count. It was rich with an entire universe of smells: green and black inks, hungry Escherichia munching happily on the sugars of wasted foodstuffs, and the delectable aroma of long unperfumed human oils, a rare treat. He nosed further into the stash and discovered dismal disaster – a faint whiff of iron.

Oh, woof me, thought the dog. He galloped along the concrete’s edge towards the darkened sewage entrance, sniffing along the way. The iron and sweat grew stronger on the air as he approached until at last, he was upon a man who was hunched against the edge of the pipe. His breath was shallow and foul like imminent death. The dog barked as loud as his tiny vocal cords would allow in an attempt to get the man’s attention. The man, for his part, placed a lazy hand atop the dog’s head with a touch that was rough, though not unaffectionate. The dog’s tail wagged with gratitude, for attention is scarce when you’re a runaway ravaged with fleas. An itchy price, to be sure, but for some dogs, the backyard just ain’t big enough.

The man said something the dog didn’t recognize despite his best efforts of roving over his Rolodex of commands and catchphrases. The man’s hand relaxed on the dog’s head and fell limp to his side. With a soft whimper, the dog took a finger in his snout – the taste was exquisite like a thousand rotten cheeseburgers and bird droppings – and tugged the man’s hand that returned no response. His breathing slowed and was almost inaudible. With effort and imagination exhausted, the dog lay by his side and lapped at those tasty fingertips until animation abandoned them.

After a stretch, the dog realized he was alone once more and rested his head upon the concrete. Suddenly, a siren burst through the silence causing the dog’s ears to perk up in attention. The sewer was cold and dark – not a suitable place for friends – but outside, the day was loud and warm and bright. Surely, a friend would be waiting out there in the Wide World. He pushed himself up to his paws and gave the friendly man one last sniff – something to remember him by. In the man’s lap sat something familiar, something the dog had seen friend use once before. He knew it from its leather smell. What was it again? Moleskine? Or some like that. He scooped up the little black notebook in his slobber-chops and trotted out of the sewers, his tail low and sweeping across the concrete.

Once in the daylight, his eyes were assaulted by bright gray and gray lights flashing atop cruisers. Men in uniform sloshed through the shallow muddy water towards the pipe entrance. The dog stopped near one of the uniformed men who was inspecting the soggy discarded money. He dropped the notebook at the man’s feet. The man tilted his head to one side when he noticed him and picked up the notebook, grimacing at the slobber that now coated the leather binding. He thumbed through the pages and, noticing they were blank, reinserted the book back into the dog’s chops. He patted his head and sent him on his way, returning his attention to the money.

The concrete entrance sloped up a grassy knoll, over which came the sounds of laughter and song. Climbing out of the ravine, the dog found himself in a park that was quite lively, indeed. Children were batting a blow-up beach ball back and forth, other dogs played silly games with sticks and humans, and there were joggers and bikers and walkers.

On the far side of the park, a girl of not much more than three dog years sat on a blanket under a tree. All around her were crumpled pieces of paper and pencils in disuse. She nibbled on a ham and cheese sandwich before growing bored and placing it back in her lunch pail. While everyone else played and sang, she sat quietly alone. Alone like me, the dog might have thought, and he rushed across the park and between a young boy’s legs sending him tumbling to the ground. The Frisbee he was after whizzed past just out of reach.

The dog, whose tail had now abandoned the ground and swayed like trees in the breeze, trotted over to the girl. Her head lay balanced on her fist and her eyes half-opened; she perked up when she saw the Shih-Tzu with a black Moleskine notebook approach, his ears flapping happily behind him. As she scratched his little head, he dropped the book at her bare feet. She tore off a piece of deli ham from her sandwich and rolled it into a ball, offering him the snack. It was salty-sweet and the tastiest thing he had eaten in as long as he could remember. As she picked up the notebook, he hopped up on his hind legs and perched his forepaws on her knee, his tail a white-brown blur of enthusiasm. She thumbed through the notebook and saw that the pages were blank. Her eyes lit up as she scratched his ears in gratitude. She picked up one of the pencils and began to sketch.

When she finished, she flipped the notebook towards the dog, revealing what she created: a portrait of him, a memory. And it was the first of many.