Someone Should Kick Him in the Ass!

[BRINDLEKIN TALES – Book 1: Chapter 9]

[Please note: this incident occurred two days before I wrote my inspirational piece, “A Lotus Blossoms by the Bay.”]

Someone should kick him in the ass all the way up the block, and back again! And you know I’m talking about Deek.

I had prepared the pooches for our morning ablution a short while ago, around 9 AM. They were in those wonderful jackets Moira was so kind to donate, only this time black instead of plaid, because reversible. They actually wore them for the first time, last night: they are not the least bit perturbed by the apparel; Taco can pee perfectly fine…plus they look great. Funny thing, though (no, hilarious) is that Taco, in his playful attack mode, sometimes goes for the Velcro tabs on my sandals. I can barely walk when he does so, but I let him have his fun and play the hapless victim.

“Oh no, Taco, ya got me again!” I’d exclaim…which response inspires him to further aggression on the browbeaten sandal, his toothy grip unyielding. All while feigning vicious growls.

Well, these jackets ALSO have Velcro tabs…bold, fat, juicy straps that number not one, not two, but THREE! Clearly, they are a tease to Taco’s mischievous nature, sticking their raspy tongues out, just daring him to rip them asunder. And so he does. Though this time the target is not yours truly, but his sibling, Wiley! All hell breaks loose, and they’re at each other like Tasmanian devils as the leashes intertwine into half their length.

So this morning when I step out, there’s Deek looking all trashy, slumped against my building about fifteen feet from the front gate. This time, instead of a shopping cart, he showed up with a baby stroller that overflowed with a myriad of stuff, including three thirty-gallon trash bags bursting with recyclables and lashed to the stroller on both sides, and in back. Yet in all that Brobdingnagian pile of discarded “treasure,” I didn’t see the doggie blanket I had given him just five nights back. Two other vagrants are with him, standing and walking about, mumbling about God only knows what. I released my grip so the furry charges could dash up to him in their usual glee. Right off the bat, he starts griping:

“What is this?” he demands while glaring at the jacketed pups. “Are these from your charity pity pool?”

“Yeh,” I reply. “I wanted you to see how good they look in them, and how well they fit.”

“Take ’em off!” he angrily spews, upon which one of his sketchy pals (a burly fellow with a thick shock of wavy black hair) pipes up with a bold frown aimed at Deek:

“No! What’s wrong with you!”

“You don’t understand, it’s how he GOT these jackets,” Deek retorts, then waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll explain later.”

Not only do I resent Deek’s unwelcome appearance below my neighbors’ windows, and imposing a loud argument there, as well…but now I also resent his coloring me as the culprit in front of a perfect stranger who may or may not be unglued. And this is definitely NOT the first time he’s potentially placed me in harm’s way. Fortunately, such attempts have fizzled out each time…so far. Including THIS incident, in light of burly-man’s rebuke. So I may indeed have people on my side, who are aware of Deek’s bipolar behavior. I desperately hope so, because if push comes to shove and the doggies are left to fend for themselves on the streets, fearful and in grief, some kindly street person will know who to bring them to.

I also resent that Deek has more frequently begun to reveal my living quarters to a growing number of strangers…something which I ALSO told him not to do numerous times, over numerous years. But it seems to be getting out of hand these past few months…including this very morning, when his two sidekicks saw me step outside my apartment building, and a little later, step back in. It’s as if each time I admonish him, he digs in his heels and pushes things even further. Yet when I think about it now, it may save the pups’ lives for the reason described above: more street people than ever know where I live.

When I go to remove the jackets, Deek stops me and says never mind, they’re okay.

“But what is this, they look like they’re on wrong, inside-out.” He scowls while examining the inner lining of the floppy collar, which is plaid.

“They’re reversible, Deek.” I reply. “I put ’em on for the first time last night, so I thought I’d try it different today. I think they look classy in black.”

Meanwhile, the pups sit there patiently on that large square flap of cardboard, soaking up the winter sun’s scant warmth, so kindly absorbed by quilted polyester padding. They look like two, big fat burritos wrapped in a licorice tortilla. They were both still on the sleepy side, and digesting a hearty breakfast. Boy are they spoiled when they visit Uncle Zeke!

Sadly, Deek suddenly erupts in a new barrage of wicked accusations; his two scruffy homies had departed by then, but how soon before, I hadn’t noticed. Rather than walk you through a blow-by-blow report that would not only bore you, good reader…it would also disrupt the flow of my prose, like pigeon poop on freshly baked rye.

Just imagine the obscene diatribes of a dope-sick speed freak, because he is also that, at times. Dope sick, I mean. Now, don’t get me started lecturing on the evils of meth, how it is the greatest bane to humanity, anyone addicted to it is a lost cause, and I’m a fool wasting my time. (If anyone’s ever noticed, we are ALL fools wasting our time, but that’s another topic I reserve for my existential conversations on Reddit.) Personally, I don’t ever TOUCH hard drugs, alcohol or other potentially harmful substance…but let me tell YOU one thing, Sparky:

If I were ever bounced onto the streets unceremoniously, you BET I’d be ingesting whatever illegal substance I could lay my hands on…as MEDICINE to help me cope with the insanity and cruel abuse by society at large!

Furthermore: you pretty much can NOT perform any kind of homeless outreach by excluding all those who don’t imbibe in one mind altering substance or another. But since I prefer to limit my street activism to one particular person for the most part, I carefully seek out the more stable among them. And Deek fits the bill to perfection. Frankly, I’ve long ago learned that I absolutely cannot deal with alcoholics. Or any other substance user, except for crystal queens. But boozers are the worst; take my word for it. Whereas SOME meth freaks, on the other hand, are capable of maintaining civil dialogue and keeping their world together, pretty much…and hold amazing, thoughtful conversations at times. Not all of them of course, but some. Here’s an eye-opening article for ya:

Famous writers and their choice of drug
https://www.thevintagenews.com/2016/08/15/famous-writers-choice-drug/

Much to my hilarity, the article revealed that Ayn Rand was a notorious meth addict. Quote:

“During the time Ayn Rand was writing The Fountainhead, she was prescribed an amphetamine as an anti-fatigue drug. She continued to take amphetamines from then out for another thirty years.”

No wonder she was such a byatch! No surprise to me, then, that modern day Libertarianism is based on the mad ramblings of a dope fiend. Yes, kind reader, the roots of disaster capitalism are nurtured by the innocent name of “Christina!” But boy-howdy does she love to party.

Deek’s bipolar madness was at an all-time high that morning! Accusing me of the most wicked sins, like not feeding the pups (“Taco’s ribs are sticking out!” Hogwash. He has a proud, broad brisket.) or giving them water (“They’re acting sluggish like they’re always thirsty!” Hogwash. I leave a bowl out all the time, and constantly refresh it.) or drugging them (“You givin’ them pills? ‘Cause they sure act different when they get back to me!” Hogwash. Maybe,just maybe, it’s his behavior.) or being sick (“Look at Taco, he’s puking!” Hogwash, I’m right there and he isn’t. Just a bit droopy with those Keane brown eyes rolled up in my direction as if to say, “I’m ashamed of my master, too, Zeke.”) or that the pandemic is fake (“No one really knows what it is, the government’s lying to turn us into slaves; and I lost a friend of twenty years yesterday from opioid overdose!” Hogwash to the first part, bullshit to the second.)…and so on ad infinitum.

This all sounds tame compared to how he acted out in real life: face coral with rage, cracked, stained hands flitting about like two frenzied birds (pups’ eyes glued in fascination), staccato imputations flung at me like bullets, in a bellicose timbre that shook the windows above…phlegm spewing in every direction. The stroller was a hazmat junk pile and HE looked like a creature from the wrong side of the tracks of the Black Lagoon! Let’s get real here: Deek was an utter disaster of a Tina-craving drama queen that morning!

Even the cheap Bic disposable razor I brought to him was a victim of his hostility. I keep a spare pack or two, just for his needs, along with black felt markers he uses to create graffiti-like designs on his sneakers and other items, such as bicycle tire whitewall and boom-box style Bluetooth speakers. I knew he needed another razor because he asked for one a couple of nights ago, but I forgot, so he said oh well, next time.

“A used razor? What the hell is this?” he scowled as he examined it closely, tilting it one way or another. It wasn’t used, it came fresh out of the pack. But I wasn’t about to feed into his game, so kept silent.

“Enough!” I blurted. “It’s too early for this, I need my coffee!” With that, I turned on my heels and marched toward Rosenberg’s on Noe Street. I could already smell the Robusta brewing, from that far away.

Then, instead of packing up, he remained a Morlock lump on the sidewalk and started taunting me with god only knows what vulgar statements. I can’t recall now, but they served their purpose: to infuriate me. So I turned back and stopped ten feet away:

“Would you like me to kick the shit out of you, Deek?” I bellowed like a snorting bull in the ring.

Meanwhile, Taco and Wiley serenely sat beside him without showing the least bit anxiety over their keeper’s lunatic ranting…while HE kept deriding me with Exorcist-movie-level insults flung my way.

“How DARE you screech and argue right in front of my building!” my shivering voice boomed. “Get the FUCK outta here, NOW!”

Well that did the trick, and he started packing posthaste, like he precognitized the devil’s arrival at any moment…and I finally departed to get that soul-saving java down my gullet.

One thing I do regret before departing, is that I didn’t have the good sense to reassuringly pet Wiley & Taco at any time during this latest bout. I noticed Wiley had wagged her tail and raised a friendly paw at me, in the middle of our argument, as they sat on a sheet of cardboard beside Deek. But in the heat of the moment, I ignored her sweet gesture. The dogs are in the middle of this, and that’s just not fair, it’s cruel. No wonder I want to bust Deek in the jaw, sometimes. Thus, the paradox of my great respect for him, as well as great disgust.

As grim as this sounds, whether or not the pooches survive, or wind up in a living hell of a situation for the rest of their darling lives…I will never betray the love they’ve shown me, but forge ahead with my goal to bring real succor and inspiration through my Brindlekin Tales. In fact, I’m already releasing them, for free, across cyberspace. Chapter by chapter, video by video and blog by blog. That’s how much these curly-tails have inspired me, and I yearn to touch everyone through my stories, the way they’ve touched me.

For there’s no love like a doggy’s love, and that kind of love never leaves you.

---

ADDENDUM

STUPID ME! I should’ve just told him “Nope! I purchased them myself,” when he asked if the jackets were donated. I could’ve come up with somethin’ about how I managed to afford them. So here’s what I’ve cooked up, and the great part about it is it’s all TRUE! I just didn’t anticipate his intense dislike for “handouts,” though of course it’s all fake; he just loves to complain and hurl guilt trips around. Nonetheless, here’s the solution to this puzzle:

In exchange for donations, I am writing a fantastic story each week. So I’m EARNING my dog supplies and vet care by trade.

He needs to hear this, but, as usual, every time he stirs up a shitty, pointless argument, I’m forced to agonize over how I’m gonna work this through, and come out a winner on the other side.

Scheherazade has nothing over me!

---

UPDATES

Subject: Sound strategy pays off
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Tara Roosevelt
Date: December 22, 2020 8:14 PM

Deek showed up some moments ago, after that horrid tantrum he threw on Sunday morning. Which I am still in the process of churning into my latest Brindlekin Tale. I rushed out to greet at godspeed pace. For I was eager to inform him that these donations weren’t “handouts” per se, but in exchange for a new (and GREAT) story every week. Upon approach, of course Taco & Wiley went ballistic with joy, pulling so hard on their leashes attached to the cart, they had to stand on their hind legs, paws fluttering about like butterflies.

Zach was twenty feet distant, parlaying with yet another street dude I didn’t recognize (how does he know so many people?), while I was crouched down and doting on the foxy canines.

A few moments later he turned and approached me. I blurted:

“I owe you an apology!”

He appeared somewhat groggy and perturbed, not in reaction to what I just said, but as a current, overall state of mind. He spoke not a word, so I continued:

“These donations aren’t really handouts, Deek,” That caught his attention. “I EARN these supplies, because in exchange I promise to write one good story a week. And it’s going really well; they LOVE my tales!”

I waited for his reaction, but he just stood there, a bit withdrawn as if mulling over something other than what I had just said.

“So these jackets, the food and everything ELSE they send me is EARNED. I just do it in trade instead of money. Since for now, accepting any cash for my work from ANYone would sabotage my Medi-Cal, and I could wind up in the clinker for government fraud.”

Well, Tara, he still didn’t utter a sound, but handed me a new smartphone and a Bluetooth speaker that’s seen better days (held together with duct tape around one side, and the bottom). Then, after I received them, he finally spoke:

“Christmas is coming up.”

“Yes I know,” I replied. “Things are falling into place for me very well now, as my stories are taking off…they’re even being read on the radio and Youtube!”

He just stood there; no more words rolled off his tongue. Perhaps because he felt ashamed of his behavior last time around. At any rate, I was overjoyed at seeing the brindlekins once more. They were jumping about my legs, yearning to drown me in licks and snorts and chubby paw pounces. Zach was now turned away from me, schmoozing with yet some other homeless guy. So, as I held the leashes in a firm grip, I called from a departing distance:

“See you later! The hounds are pulling me home!”

And with that, we all three scampered on hovel for another sweet sleepover. I think I did good by him. And saved the day once more, for the doggies’ sake.

• Zeke

—

Subject: Re: Sound strategy pays off
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Tara Roosevelt
Date: December 22, 2020 10:03 PM

Are the doggies still with you tonight??

Yes indeed. Deek’s okay with jackets and anything else I get, now that he understands I’m busting my ovaries in exchange. But he did admonish:

“Well, ya better not be writing about me or the dogs, I won’t have any of that…I’ll be furious if that’s what you’re up to!”

“Oh c’mon, Deek, have a little faith,” I pleaded, “My stories are all horror tales or funny ones, like the time I wore a wig for almost a year; I made a fool of myself.”

He just stood there by his cart, listening. So I added this repartee before taking my leave and returning to the pooches:

“Besides, I don’t find you INTERESTING enough to write about. Sorry.”

Oh, yeah, I also told him my writing career is gonna take off like a star ship…a lot of people are turning on to my tales, and they love ’em. He asked how I could make millions so fast, in just a few months.

“Well, there’s several ways, at least. One of ’em is that publishers fight for the rights to my stories, so the winner offers me a huge sum. Millions of people by then will be cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs to read my next novel, so they’ll sell out in one day. Even if my cut is just a dollar per book, I’ll make at least three million in twenty-four hours. Another way is that wealthy people and organizations really like what I stand for, my activism, my ideas, my proposals, my unbridled enthusiasm. So one group or another will be eager to set up a nonprofit foundation for me, that I can further my cause…er, causes.”

I didn’t bother to come up with other conjectures on how I may get rich very soon, as I told him I should get back to the mutts, so have a good night.

Get this: I’ve just uploaded four more of my KNYO video narrations, and am very pleased at how things are developing on my Youtube channel. I think those KNYO pieces will be quite a hit, and a boost into recognition. I just listened to a few of them, including when he interviewed me. That was on March 10, 2017, by the way. I discussed Trump for a bit…and I mused: “Gee, I thought my KNYO stuff was older than that! I also listened to him read “Zeke’s Last Supper.” What a hoot!

Well, Wiley & Taco are snugly tucked in their blankets, snoozing away like they’re in heaven. I’m gonna put away my tools of the trade for now, and kick back in bed with two little doggies, and watch a torrent-downloaded movie with a glass of milk and two Peter Paul Mounds candy bars.

Ha ha, Peter & Paul’s sermon on the Mounds!

• Zeke

—

Subject: Run-in with the building manager…not very nice.
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Tara Roosevelt
Date: December 23, 2020 3:15 PM

So I just stepped back inside, after taking the pups for an afternoon stroll. Released them from the leashes once in the lobby, so they could race up the stairs and dash back and forth in the hallway for the few minutes it takes before they’re exhausted and wanna step inside. This is the standard routine. But this time around the building manager, Kevin, was on the first landing, which is halfway up the stairs to my level. As usual when they see someone else in the building, they bark. Though not as much or so often anymore…but still they bark, while wagging their fluffy rudders. Everyone in the building who’s run across them, compliments me on their charm. Their barks are brief, and are otherwise wonderfully quiet in my hovel. They don’t make ANY noise, in fact, when I exit for a short time…like going to the restroom or around the corner for some java, or to return Deek’s recharged devices (while letting me keep the brindlekin overnight).

At first they were anxious about my brief departures, so upon my return, they’d be sitting up in bed, staring quizzically. But as time passed, they grew more relaxed…though Wiley would still make a big fuss over my return, and crave comforting hugs, pets, belly rubs and kisses. She was SO happy to see me again; she feared I’d abandoned them in a locked chamber! Yet as more time passed, they no longer sat up at attention during my departure, awaiting my return. They now just remain prone on their blankets as I depart, maybe open their peepers a slit as if to say “We know you’ll be back in a jiff, have a nice poop, we’re good!” They don’t even raise their heads! Nowadays, the pooches don’t trouble themselves to do THAT much…they just keep on snoozing. Except that Wiley still greets me with puppy joy the moment I open the door: she crawls on her belly inch by inch, front legs fully extended, using the grip of those paws to propel her forward across the fluffy bedding. And her tail flicks like a boss.

As they ran up to the landing, they paused there to make a flurry of yaps at the manager, then resumed their dash up the stairs to enjoy their runway playtime. I followed quickly behind, coiled leashes in hand and, as I reached Kevin, said “Oops, sorry!”

His response (in his usual calm but slightly whiny tone of voice): “They shouldn’t even be here!”

“I’m just dog sitting,” I replied, as he already began his descent towards the lobby, so I couldn’t actually engage him in adult conversation. I think he knows whose dogs they are; you can’t keep ANY secrets here in The Castro…buncha gossip queens.

As he vanished down the stairway, he finished with: “I see them all the time on the camera. Next time that happens they won’t be allowed in any more.”

And I called back: “Oh c’mon, they’re sweet little doggies.”

First of all, that’s a lie, that he sees them all the time. Their visits average twice per week. Besides, what does he mean by “next time that happens?” Next time they’re running upstairs off-leash, or next time I have them over? I don’t think he means the latter, as he would’ve worded it differently. Such as: “Those dogs gotta go NOW!” Not a single person’s complained of their presence…in fact, everyone seems tickled. Besides, this is a pet friendly building; over a third of the residents own dogs. And bounding up the stairs and up and down my hallway, is the rare chance they get to exercise when I’m their keeper. I don’t DARE let them run free in a park, or anywhere else…what with no rabies tag, and so many mean-spirited folks out there just looking to fuck with you, especially dog haters. Well, they DO get more exercise by wrestling on the bed…they really go at it! So I’m gonna play it like so:

Keep the leashes on until I reach my floor, then let ‘er rip. They only do this for less than three minutes, anyway…and they don’t make any noise except for the pattering of their paws. And there ARE no cameras in the hallways…just in the lobby, the basement, the back gate exit, and on each of three porches. But they LOVE scrambling up the stairs! I just hate having to take that away from them. Oh, well, if that’s his only complaint, I’ll comply. Come to think of it:

Some residents with dimutive mutts have been in the habit of letting them run free up and down the stairs. Until the pandemic hit…which is ridiculous, because they’re no more a risk when unleashed. And my fascist neighbor down the hallway from me, Moe Fleisher, always had his previous charge, a papillon named “Skellington the Third,” play in the corridor every evening, chasing after a laser beam.

Seems to me he could sit down and speak with me about the doggies…like a grownup. Perhaps he’s afraid he’ll fall in love with them if he does. And they’d wind up becoming the mascots of 2306!

I don’t see anything illegal about my sitting two well-mannered and friendly pooches. Especially when other SRO tenants have adopted a little mutt now and then, without any opposition from manager or landlord. Furthermore, this is NOT in violation of the pandemic safety measures, as dogs are RARELY known to carry or spread the virus. So say many reports that have come in, including this one from The Wall Street Journal:

Disease experts say the chance of your pet catching the virus from you or another pet in the neighborhood or at the park is tiny. If they do, the chance they get sick is smaller still. And the chance you catch the virus from your pet is close to zero.

As for bedbugs: they are outdoor doggies, never enter another person’s home except mine. I have never found one on them, and believe me, I check each time before stepping indoors. Since they have thin pelts, it’s easy to spot even the tiniest out-of-place speck. So let’s keep our fingers crossed, and hope that Kevin’s reprimand was simply an off-leash gripe. Having said that:

With my new-found confidence in my destiny, I’m sure it will never come to a ban on Taco & Wiley’s angelic visits here. And on my part, I have no reason to express anger or hatred in this conflict, or in any other conflict for that matter. Meher Baba was right: “Don’t worry, be happy!“

• Zeke

PS: I just received a notice to Deek, care of my address, from the US Department of the Treasury in Birlingham, Alabama. Acknowledging that his $1,200 stimulus was rerouted to his child support debt. They didn’t include how much he still owes…just that his monetary obligation was reduced by that amount. But this is just an affirmation, as he already received the statement of rejection months ago. So I don’t think I’ll even mention it to him, as what would be the point? Recalling his great expectation for receiving that stimulus (waiting months for the process to complete, only to find out he would not receive even one red penny) would only serve to upset. And I’ve had enough of Mr. Grouchy!

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Re: Run-in with the building manager…not very nice.
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Tara Roosevelt
Date: December 23, 2020 10:04 PM

Oh, Jeez, hope he doesn’t choose now to become a villain.

I certainly don’t appreciate his playing Ebenezer Scrooge to my Bob Cratchit (and to Deek’s Tiny Tim). Yet I hope the final outcome of this conflict is every bit as fortuitous as the one in Charles Dickens’ tale.

Okay. Hope you’re right, i really do. Your plan sounds like a good one.

Yes, it seems the best way to deal with it.

Absolutely no point in picking that old scab. He’d just think of a way to turn it around and blame you.

Exactly. By the way, I just saw him again only 20 minutes ago, to retrieve the brindlekin. He whined about the jackets, but I reminded him they are not handouts…I earned them through my writing. Then he griped about how the plaid design looks “gay.” (Imagine me, a diehard LGBT activist having to put up with this crap right here in the heart of the heart of Gay Mecca…and from someone CLOSE to me! Homophobia remains ubiquitous.) So he turned them inside-out, and now they’re black. Even though the other day when he saw the jackets for the first time, they WERE reversed to black, and he complained they look stupid, like some retard who can’t dress himself. Whatever. At least he’s keeping the jackets on them…and that’s what REALLY matters.

Deek’s talking about visiting one of “his people” for two or three days, who lives almost ten miles away. I said fine, hope you three have a lovely time. I’m not anxious about the doggies any more…I just sense they’ll always be nearby, and we’ll have many visits for many years to come. Considering how so much is falling into place for me now, it wouldn’t make any sense if the doggies weren’t part of that. So guess what, Tara? You are the first to learn of another new word I just invented, after “brindlekin:”

precognitize

Here is an example…in fact, the world’s very FIRST example of its proper use. And it comes from a story I just completed a couple of hours ago:

“Well that did the trick, and he started packing posthaste, like he precognitized the devil’s arrival at any moment…and I finally departed to get that soul-saving java down my gullet.”

• Zeke

—

Re: Sound strategy pays off
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Tara Roosevelt
Date: December 23, 2020 11:57 PM

Deek just swung by to pick up his electronic toys. The temperature’s really dipped…brrr! It’s forty-four degrees right now. As I stepped out, I was pleased to see the jackets on…Taco wore plaid, and Wiley wore elegant black. Deek asked for a blanket when he summoned me from the sidewalk. Glad to part with that excellent kids sleeping bag Tim Glyde and partner of the announcement list sent me! We talked a little while.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he stated.

“Yeah, I know…just two or three days from now.”

“No, I think it’s Thursday, which means Christmas is tomorrow.”

“Really? I don’t think so, I think today’s Tuesday.” I thought to escort him partway to where he was planning to crash (right around the corner and across from Rosenberg’s, in a well-lit nook), so we could pass by a newsstand and look at the date.

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s Christmas Eve,” he replied.

“Hmm, I thought today was Tuesday. But I don’t pay any attention to the holidays, even the days of the week. Maybe you’re right.”

Then Deek whipped out his smartphone and spoke into it: “Google, what’s today’s date?”

“It is Thursday, December twenty-fourth,” replied the AI.

“Well I’ll be!” I was actually a bit surprised and impressed at Deek’s savvy use of the device. So he said:

“Merry Christmas, Zeke…I’ll be around the corner for awhile. You have a good night. And thank you for the blanket, the jackets, everything.”

“You, too, Deek.” And with that they mosied on across the street. Then suddenly, Wiley freed herself from her collar and came running back to me.

Deek grew angered: “Wiley, don’t play me like that!”

“I got her, Deek,” I said with one knee on the concrete to embrace the scamp. “Don’t be angry at her, she’s not playing you, she just wants in from the cold.”

He placed the collar back on, and she begrudgingly followed, tugging forcefully on her leash in her wish to be indoors, away from the cold. Deek hollered at her, but gently so, and she stopped resisting. As the trio approached the distant corner, the doggies kept looking back at me. I so badly wanted to run up to them, scoop them into my arms, rescue them from an almost frigid night and a man too angry for his, and their, own good.

But they have jackets and a blanket, so they’ll be alright. Maybe I’ll pop over in a half hour, just to check in on them. I’m guessing he’d like me to visit, else he wouldn’t have made a point of telling me where he’ll be tonight. Welp, time to brew up a piping hot cuppa blueberry tea, and bring it out to him! Stay tuned.