guthrie goes

guthrie goes on long walks now, in the morning with the sweetie then in the afternoon with me. at first i was reluctant to go on these walks because guthrie lunges at bikes and people with carts and strollers. it's the wheels he doesn't like but nobody wants to see a dog leap toward their small child for any reason, even if his legs are too short to get him where he's headed. he'll go after dogs, too, innocently strolling down the street, looking to make friends. he'll ease up like he wants to say hello and then he'll chomp down right on the nose of his victim. usually a dog larger than he is. usually a dog larger than i am. he poses no danger to these dogs and they know it. they never bite back, but it's embarrassing. he is a wild animal, completely uninterested in the ways of the civilized world. he is james dean, cigarette dangling from sullen lips, strolling black and white along a rainy street, dripping rebellion, oozing refusal.

but with each mile guthrie stomps along something has been happening until today it all happened together.

we walk toward an intersection and wait for the light. a short yellow bus rolls by, overcrowded. a round child stands in a seat near the rear and crams his face against the half-open window. he raises his left hand and waves at us. i wave back but his face never shifts from seriousness until, just as he passes in his bus into the intersection, guthrie looks up. the waving in the bus becomes frantic and the boy's whole face liquefies into smile.

we move quickly through the parade grounds, baseball games and soccer games scattered on various fields. spectators, dads and friends of players, sit on benches or stand in clusters near the chain link. a woman walks toward us with one of those white fluffy little dogs. the dog noses guthrie and he leans in without even an attempt to destroy it. "is he a boy?" asks the woman with the fluffy dog. "yes," i say, proud of his even temper. "muy peligro!" she says to her dog with all the drama and menace she can muster. she tugs her dog along and i laugh, translating for guthrie who does not speak spanish. "you are bad news," i say, "dangerous". he trots along, uninterested in a dog who can't deal with a little danger.

we walk along the southwest side of the park, on a long and wide sidewalk lined with trees and park benches. guthrie likes this part of the walk best, i think. he knows where he is going and trots along as purposefully as a dog can manage. he likes the benches when they are covered with old men, clumps of them sitting or standing there, talking, laughing, swearing at each other over domino games or someone's inability to recall obvious information about a baseball game played half a century ago. when he comes alongside one of these benches, his little torpedo self keeps plowing straight on, but his head snaps around to the right, fixes on the old guys, stares them down for twelve or thirteen of his short-legged steps. they watch him go by. he doesn't bark or lunge. he just looks, like the boy on the short yellow bus, face blank.

there is a place where homeless folks stay, some in tents and some in cardboard, in a part of the park sort of protected and private. it is toward the end of our walk and one of the homeless men is usually out in the middle of the sidewalk there, clad entirely in black, yelling and gesturing. as people near him he leaps toward them, waving his arms in an attempt to convince them something in the world isn't right. and when we approach he is always ranting, but he eyes guthrie from the moment he notices us. guthrie marches forward like the marines, head up, ears flapping. it is the same every time. when guthrie shifts his attention their eyes lock. the yelling man does not stop his tirade, and although his eyes are on guthrie, guthrie does not seem to be the focus of his yelling. guthrie keeps his eyes on the yelling until we are well past and the yelling is following us more and more quietly. nothing about his body changes but the angle of his head. and usually, normally, that is it. but today i do not see the yelling man. i think maybe he will leap out from behind a bench or from behind a tree but he does not. we walk up to the bench he usually stands near and guthrie doesn't slow, but turns his head, just like always. he keeps his head focused on the bench, craning his neck as we pass and i begin to think he's losing it but i look over. the yelling man's black jacket is draped across the back of the bench, waiting.

guthrie rounds the circle of bartel pritchard square which has been, as far as i can tell, always a circle and always called a square. teenagers drape along the entrance to the park and a transit worker with a fancy hat hollers, nodding toward guthrie, that she has one at home. dachshund, i figure. she waves at him and says to us both, "those dogs sure do help you know you're living". even the teens, who seem to be melting off the park wall, glance over at him with a smile. he gives them nothing. that dog has no time for people who are subtle.

we are at the top edge of the park where women sit on the benches with strollers nearby. small children wobble around them, teetering dangerously near the edges of things. they fall toward him on legs that look like his, squealing things that sound a little like "dog". i notice he struts past strollers without even a growl. bikes swerve past us, making me jump, but guthrie stays on course. a woman with one of those rickety rolling carts comes banging and slamming down the sidewalk and guthrie does not even turn his head as we walk by. he strolls down our street, hops up the front steps and leans into the door, waiting. we are home.