The junkyard dog’s name is Winifred, or Roger, or Augustus, or Rudolph. He barks loudly as you round the corner and rushes toward the fence. But you look at him, Clarence maybe, and his brown eyes tell you, “hey, I’m just doing my job.”
And he stares. And you stare. And the soft light of six a.m. creates the space for empathy.
“Buford,” you say, “come close and I’ll take your picture.” And he smiles inside for the attention.
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[...] A few months ago, back when I was finding my water legs with this whole blogging thing, I came across a gentleman who caused my mind to race with delight. Still probably my favorite post to date, I am no closer to knowing him now than I was then, though I continue to think of his many names. Yesterday I came across what may be his long-lost Shy Brother, Danté. [...]
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