{Interlude. The brown dog}

The street, empty.
The peonies, hypertrophic.
The windows, dark.

A brown dog crosses the road in front of a white van. It’s young, and scared, and looking for somewhere to hide. It finds my feet, sits down on them, leans onto my ankles. It’s a soft weight.
A man’s head emerges from the van’s window. He asks something.
It’s not mine, I say back.
The man gets off, comes closer. I said, does it have a tag?
No.

The man is British, which in Brent is noteworthy enough.
I pet the dog’s head.
It’s shivering.
Well.
Poor thing.
Poor thing, he agrees.
He picks up the dog, gently; holds it in his arms. The man has white paint spots all over his clothes, the dog’s fur has some of its own.
A boy comes out of the tennis court on the other side of the road.
Is it yours?
No. But it just ran through the court.
Poor thing, poor thing, we go again.
Will you take care of it?
Yeah, he says.
Good luck, I tell him.
Yeah, he says again. Wearily, as if it’s not the first time.

The man gets back into the white van. I resume running. The night has fallen, the windows are bright and yellow.
My feet run lighter.
image

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s