A crisp wind bit my cheek as Lilly, the Boston terrier, and I pushed through a sticky door into the early morning.
The low sun arced behind bands of clouds stretched thin as pulled taffy. Enough warmth to soothe my cheek, but not my mood. Offered a protein bar and some water to a wizened homeless man curled in the nook of a storefront the night before. He refused the bar but took the water. A huge spatter of dried barf and a scattering of bottle tops marked his vacant sleep space.
Lilly and I shuffled along, kicking up wisps of autumn dust. The sidewalk was printed with the hazy remains of dead birch leaves once aflame with color and, before that, pulsing with photosynthesis. When I was a kid, I hated the trees for throwing their leaves away.
Lilly sniffed the city grass, did her business and pulled me back toward home. Good. I wanted to duck inside, too. Away from the cold and signs of loneliness. But Lilly didn’t pull directly home. Instead, she lead me toward a procession at which she’d ordinarily tremble: at least two dogs and a human.
Heading the field was a woman of about 70. A middle-aged shepherd flanked her left, matching strides. Behind them another other dog’s black head bobbed, his body masked by the others.
Reflexively, I dipped my free hand into Lilly’s treat pouch. One piece of chicken left, enough to lure Lilly deep into a driveway where a tall hedge gave us cover. Lilly’s become much less reactive to individual dogs, but not clusters of them. My heart thumped. How would I hold her at bay from this triggering scene?
A rasp of rusty wheels neared. Lilly sat attentively at my side, eyes forward. Then, from behind the hedge, the procession emerged. The woman glanced at us and smiled. In one hand, she held the shepherd’s leash. Her other gripped a handle hitched to a red wagon, its “Radio Flyer” logo blurred by scuffs marks.
In the wagon’s cushioned bed rode a black lab, his muzzle densely frosted by age. As they passed, the lab tilted his head back and dropped his jaw slightly. A sudden breeze ruffled his flews and spun tiny pinwheels stuck along the wagon’s bumpers. The lab looked content as I’d hope to be when my legs fail me. Lilly tracked the trio, her head swiveling right-to-left, until they vanished behind the next house.
Two dozen frosty days separate us from that humble parade. Each morning after Lilly drops her load, she pulls us in the same direction she first saw them. I search, too. We scan the street for a glint of the woman’s serenity and her elder dog’s dignity and find neither.
I hope we see them again. I want to thank the woman for her gentle hand upon the wagon handle. I want her to know my belief that, if her creaky wagon broke, she’d hoist her frosted lab onto her shoulders the way Bob Cratchit did for Tiny Tim. I want to tell her how each parade she leads shifts the shadows in others’ minds of how things might be.
Someday that red wagon will sit, vacant. I bet it doesn’t stay empty. As long as breath fills that woman’s sails, a canine elder-pride parade could roll.
Next time Lilly pulls us toward the parade, I won’t lead her away.
May your holidays brim with gifts of gratitude. Thank you for reading.