Two Dogs

Rain fell at the boat ramp. A massive January high tide threatened to spill over into the parking lot. Where the homeless encampment once was, now stood three feet under water.

Wandering around the parking lot and admiring Coos Bay, Elmer and I had met a woman in her 80s wielding a staff and dressed in a red parka, red sweats and a red cap. We struck up a conversation. I learned that she had lived in the apartment building adjacent to the boat ramp for 14 years and currently paid $1000 a month rent for a one-room unit. Her view of the bay from her upstairs apartment was incredible, worth every cent. I asked about the homeless in the area. She said, “All I can do is feed them, clothe them and show them humanity and kindness. When they’re not high.”

I got the feeling she was running a one-woman social service outreach program for the homeless out of her apartment.

So many people living in houses and apartments and condos and other domiciles are doing exactly the same type of quiet, improvised work on behalf of the homeless. It almost never gets written about but I find it one of the more fascinating stories of the crisis of American homelessness.

We said goodbye and Elmer and started toward my car. Rain fell harder. Wind was picking up.

I turned and saw the woman in red out on the crab pier doing yoga poses and light saber moves with the staff. She was the only person out there and it was one of the finest sights I’d seen on Coos Bay since moving here.

As I loaded Elmer into the car, I noticed a homeless couple, each wearing a backpack, each holding a leash to a small dog. They were taking cover under the awning of the public restrooms.

My heart sank. Dogs like these two do this to me. I got into the car, turned on the engine, blasted the heater, and watched the couple for a minute or so.

I wonder if reflects something terrible in my character that I sometimes care more for the dogs of the homeless than the homeless themselves. (I hate even writing that last statement.)

It was time to go. I checked my wallet and pulled out three dollar bills. I drove toward the couple, stopped, powered down the window, and called out to the couple. The man came over with his dog, a cute red cattle mutt.

“Here’s a few bucks,” I said. “Take care of the dogs.”

“Always brother!” he said with gusto. The woman came over with her dog. She thanked me.

It was then I noticed the man was wearing an absurd multi-colored plastic lei around his neck. I asked him about it.

“It washed ashore near where we were camping,” he said, smiling.

The lei looked damn good on the man. It made him sort of sparkle.

I said goodbye, wished them luck, and Elmer and I drove away.