Practicing to Walk Like a Heron

But He Loved His Dog

145 But He Loved His Dog Wednesday was trash day so he pulled the garbage can to the curb. There was never that much in it. Sometimes he stood there for a few minutes, looking down when a car drove by, looking up at the trees in the yard across the street. No one really knew if he knew anyone. He had a dog. It wasn’t much of a dog. It was an old dog, a mix too mixed to know what all might be there. He told someone once, “Oh I suppose there has to be some beagle, maybe some German shepherd.” Each noon he walked the dog down to the corner, left on Maple Avenue, three blocks to the park where they would stop and he would sit on a bench under a beech tree that had been hollowing out for years. The dog lay at his feet, once in a while lifted its head and sniffed. He never read or talked except to say, “What do you think of this day, boy?” and the dog would wag its tail across the gravel path. He would sit for most of the afternoon, then tug on the dog’s leash and they would walk on through the park, then back home. He would bring in the mail, toss it away. When the evening’s light began drawing its shadow across his porch, 146 he would turn on the radio, open a window, and sit outside, with his dog, listening. ...