Walking Chihuahuas on Fentanyl

The light turned red. I stopped the car. Elmer was snoozed out in the back seat. What a beautiful 70-degree day in Portland!

I looked right to the alcove of the apartment building that holds an irregular fentanyl festival. A local homeless woman held out a piece of tin foil to a man leaning over and twitching. I couldn't make his age out.

She lit the contents of the foil and he inhaled it. I had jazz going on the radio as I observed this. It was a strange soundtrack for the ongoing shattering of American life.

As the man inhaled, nodded and twitched, I stared at two Chihuahuas secured on a leash to his left hand. The other hand was assisting the fumes of the burning fentanyl destroying his mind and body.

He was going to walk his dogs after taking the hit. The dogs looked scared but they didn't move. They'd probably seen it before.

My passenger side window was rolled down. I was about ready to yell: Hey you fucking asshole, take care of your fucking dogs before you get high and pass out.

This anger surprised me. I was so close to delivering it. Truth be told: I didn't give a shit if he overdosed. All I cared about were his dogs. That might say something about me, but I don't know what that is.

I said nothing.

The light turned green and I drove away.