I go to the corner block of my apartment where the
neighborhood dog owners come to congregate. I sit on a park
bench that borders the periphery of a circular pho-grass
space. I am alone. I open my metal, silver cigarette case, flip a
white American Spirit around and nestle it between my lips.
Then, rushing with anticipation I push my hand through my
pocket searching for the brass zippo. Got it. With my face
scrunched up from searching my eyes narrow, covering them
from the impending strike of the flint. A rush of fire pushes
against the winds of the city as I make my cherry. Ahh. I sit
back against the bench opening my legs and pushing out my
feet. The smoke is hot and I inhale it deep into my lungs. A
moment passes of nothingness and I release, smoke leaving
my body as well as the tension. I lose my breath for a minute,
waiting for my next hit.

I hear jingle of tags and clips, the scuffing of shoes on the
concrete sidewalk. A dog is walking into the park followed by
their owner. It looks about and smells the turf. It looks at me
and I at it. My eyes begin to smile and then my heart does
too. I can’t stop watching it. I look to the owner, looking, not
knowing what I’ll see or feel or think. It is different every time
with every person. Every dog is more or less the same as
appropriate their age and breed. I fall in love with every dog I
see. They show me themselves when I can see. I take another
drag from my fire and look unto the skies as I breathe.

More dogs and owners show up and my heart skips a beat.
My mouth widens revealing my teeth, I, no longer able to
hold in my happiness. Another owner arrives. Some are
nervous, others proud, and some are just there. They let their
animals off their leashes and as I have not stopped doing they
watch them, too. The dogs sniff each other, they go to the
corners to smell the shrubs and dirt. They find their spots.
Some owners bring a ball to throw. Most dogs get the ball
and then drop it once caught. I think a certain breed will
bring it back, I think.

The dogs have the open smiling faces as they congregate,
brushing faces, chests and tails against one another. Jabbing
happens sometimes and gruffs and chewed ears. And chasing
and playing with open mouths and smiling teeth as the winds
carries their flopping ears.

The owners enjoy the show, as do I. A beautiful occurrence in
the concrete city below our feet. The owners chatter
sometimes. Some they know, others only by sight, and some
are regular friends on the block. A dog comes to me and I
smile on his approach, putting my hand out for him to smell.
Sometimes they jump into my lap; others let me pet them,
and still others come to leave. Each one I see. I watch as they
leave to go and see what they will see.

Aghh! My smoke is about spent! In a sigh of resignation I
chief it as I stand slowly stretching my weary knees and walk
slowly with deliberation to the trash can at my exit. I smoke it
to the filter, stretch down to smash it and flick it in without
anyone seeing.

A few of the owners have joined me as I leave. I hang back
and let them pass as I walk leaning back with ease towards
home the concrete path leads.