Tug the Husky

There one is; I'll cross the street on foot to intercept it. There another one is; I'll bicycle three blocks out of my way to watch it. I spot one again, in the back seat of a moving vehicle with its head out the window; I'll come alongside, slow down, and watch it as long as I possibly can.

I'm talking about huskies. I had one, Sonny, for 17 years. Our entire life together was a madcap coastal adventure. Five years ago, I had to put her down during the lowest and dangerous point in my life. Not long after, a prominent dog psychic telephoned me and said Sonny had contacted her to see how I was doing. She was worried about my welfare during an extreme crisis. I couldn't believe it. I'd never heard of the psychic and I don't believe in psychics.

Sonny has never left me. She visits me in my turbulent dreams on a regular basis. We're always on the move in these dreams. That dog was pure unpredictable movement and the happiest of companions.

I walked down Main Street. It was an overcast Sunday afternoon. Merchants packed up after the final day of the farmer's market. My destination: a somnolent dive bar to write.

Then it wasn't. I spotted a black and white husky leashed up to an iron bench near the entrance to an arcade. Two men, one younger, one older, definitely men living outdoors in urban America based on their various backpacks and bindles around them. (Yes, people of the New American Diaspora still use bindles.) They were talking and older man was smoking a cigarette.

I hustled across Main Street and headed toward the husky. Maybe hustle is an understatement. I ran. I wanted to meet the dog and its owner.

The men broke off their conversation and looked up to me as I stopped a few feet away from the husky. It was an old weathered dog but still had the piercing blue eyes that distinguished the breed. One eye was cloudy, the other a little nicked around the socket.

I introduced myself as a former husky owner and recounted my brief glorious history with Sonny. The men listened and nodded. The owner, the older man, introduced himself as Theo. The dog's name was Tug. I looked at Tug. He looked back. I wanted to pet him and say hello, and try to elicit the special goofy talk huskies always have when they greet people or get excited. But Tug appeared very tired and I let him be. Besides, I was becoming overwrought with emotion and started tearing up.

The men saw this. They looked at each and the back to me.

I asked if Tug was a talker, and the younger man said, “Oh yes, he always interrupts our conversations!”

Just like a husky! I imagined Theo and Tug's conversations in their life on the streets.

I reached into my pocket and dug out $20 bill and extended it toward Theo.

“Take care of the dog with this, and yourself,” I said.

“Thank you.”

I had to get out of there or I was going to break down crying. A minute later I was sitting in a booth with a beer in front of me composing myself and saying, “I've got to get a husky again.”