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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.

© 2006 – 2024 Raafi Rivero.