Shaggy in photos, he’s actually pretty thin in real life. Having lived in a shelter with 500 other dogs, the doggo — a scruffy mix — is understandably quiet and easily spooked. He enters our home gingerly, alternately shaking under the table and scratching himself because of the flea medication he received before leaving the shelter. He finds solace in his doggie bed, his white fur bright against the velvety purple blanket I spread over it, and watches me closely from there, nose quivering. 

The concept of leash walking is new to him, so I take him for walks several times a day until he gets the hang of it, which he does after only a couple of days (good boi.) On our walks we move from sidewalk to sidewalk to avoid the meat shop (olfactory overload), the grocery shop (mean shop cat), and the jewellery store (fat corgi). I catch up on music and podcasts while he sniffs around and searches for the spot he deems most deserving of his pee.

Funny how a dog gave me a semblance of a (pseudo) social life. In as short as a week I’ve made the acquaintance of many people in my neighborhood within a dog-walking radius. And though I knew this dog wasn’t my dog, he gave me something to look forward to. His presence was a balm that distracted me from the story of my life — the story of moving once I’ve gotten a routine down pat, of doing things all over again. 

I handed him over to another foster a few days ago. He licked my hand and never looked back. Cool cool cool… Thanks for the kibble and the water, is what I imagined him saying as he walked away. Dogs, man… they’re so great.