I walk along Court, the main street a block from home. A storefront up, a bulldog, in an old, tattered green sweater, lumbers along the sidewalk alone.
She sniffs the blue mailbox. She turns, slowly, in a circle. Sniffs the mailbox again.
Is she lost?
Down the block, an older woman, stands at the corner store with a bag.
“Zelda!” she yells down, toward me.
I smile – the dog has a friend – and head home.
A week later, while returning from a quick run to get a bottle of wine from Charlie at the corner store, I see the old dog meandering down my street, in a larger brown sweater this time. A few brownstones down, the same woman is patiently waiting by a gate.
“Is that Zelda?” I shout up to her.
“Yeah, she’s always doing this to me!” she says.