And trailing behind us were two women, one young, the other middle-aged. They were in conversation and occasionally, when the dog idled, some of their words would come into focus.

“It was like everything I thought was real wasn’t, and I was sure I was crazy.”

“Well, they said I would have remained hospitalized but for that one thing.”

“I will never forget the look on his face when I opened the door and saw what was happening.”

“I can’t’ describe to you how sad I’ve been.”

The older woman, attentive and silent, was a witness. She was looking right into the still shocked eyes of her companion, determined to walk with her and listen for as long as it took– the movement bringing the story to the surface and freeing it, if only for a moment.

Further along a little boy held a pile of leaves and twigs in his hands, declaring to his father– who sat on a bench in front of a coffee shop– ” Making a nest is hard!” The father became a necessary expert, “Yes, it is, but birds are very good at it!” His wife, beautifully sunlit and scarved, rolled her eyes and smiled, “Your father’s nickname in college was The Birdman, did you know that, Alistair? He was famous for his nests!”

A middle-aged, maximally bearded man wearing a sweatshirt with something accidental on it, jogged along. He had an easy gait and appeared naturally athletic, but as he loped closer to us and then past, I could see that his smile was wild and uncontrollable and he was muttering to himself. His clothes filthy, he clutched a beaten five dollar bill in his long, thin fingers, and ran straight to the liquor store.

On our way home the dog bounced through the leaves, and an elderly woman in a wheelchair, still wearing a poppy on her blazers, smiled at us, “She looks so happy!” she said. I shouted back that it was a beautiful day, and the woman nodded crisply, “I will grant you that,” she said, before gearing her chair forward and buzzing across the street.

* (Photo of leaves courtesy of Debra Lary)

I’ve never been able to tell who lives in this sprawl of a place, but sometimes I’ll see a girl sitting on the fence or a maybe couple of them standing about smoking furtively. Somehow, they all seem a little sideways, possessing wild, impulsive eyes suggesting that at any moment they might throw a rock through a window or give somebody a hand job behind a tree. There’s just something that feels very delinquent about it all.

The other day there were two girls, both dressed for a humid summer night rather than a cool, windy day in March, standing in front of the place, One of them became intrigued by the idea of our dog, Heidi, a Miniature Dachshund. From the other side of the street she began cooing and flirting, more stripper than schoolgirl, trying to get Heidi to cross over to her, but the dog sensed something wrong in her and grew rigid, barking. And such is this girl’s life, desperate for warmth but always being rebuked by confusion and hostility.

In the line-up in front of me at the LCBO stood an elderly woman– once elegant and the belle of the ball– and her withered husband, now being pushed about in a wheelchair by a Filipino domestic. They were buying a bottle of wine and bickering, getting lost in the small details. The world around them, the people waiting in line, the cashier, the nanny, everything fell away, and there was nothing left but the furious minutia of the moment, this moment to which both of them had travelled together for so long and so far.

A little further along I sat down on a bench and a nearly homeless man, thin as a rail and with the sort of tattoos that looked self-administered, stopped to chat with Heidi. He put his nose right up to hers, his lips pursed, and then he kissed her on the snout. He kept his face there, waiting, and Heidi licked him back, and it was evident that this small, beautiful moment illuminated his day.

Silently, as if an idea rather than an actual person, a young woman in a U of T track jacket ran by us. I could feel her whoosh, like being startled by a deer, and looking up I saw her blonde ponytail bouncing and then vanishing forever around the corner. And then on our way home a guy bounded out of his apartment and smiled at us. Exuberant, he was quickly 20 yards ahead, stretching as he walked, his arms as wide open as possible, as if to gather in the entirety of the day that awaited.

I was left a little puzzled by it all, slightly dazzled, even. I understand how she had her arms full, particularly if she had aggressive dogs but still, it just seemed so presumptive and impersonal, like her life were an arrow around which the rest of the world– little more than white noise– must part.

I wondered if I might be like that, too. Recently, our dog, a Miniature Dachshund, had urgent back surgery. It’s a very expensive procedure, and the amount of money we spent on that could have been spent elsewhere. After all, there are people who can’t afford back surgery, who can’t afford AIDS medication or a place to live, but we chose to spend the money on our pet—a creature some might describe as a servant whose job is to love. Whether this was an ethical expenditure or not is something worth sitting down and thinking about, as we have, and whatever the arguments one might make, we were simply called to do so—it was an instinctive response to love.

I was rolling all of this over as we continued up the street, thinking about entitlements, privilege, exclusion and the monetary valuation of life, eventually coming across a homeless woman in front of the LCBO. She’s a woman I’m friendly with, and due to Heidi’s surgery we hadn’t been out in a few weeks, and this woman—to whom we could have given the money we spent on Heidi’s surgery– hadn’t seen us in quite a while. She was overjoyed to see us and it was as if she was some sort of saint placed there to address my doubts. She began to praise Heidi for her beauty and silky coat, telling me how happy it made whenever she saw us walking up the street. “It’s like a little beam of light shining into my day,” she said, “yes, aren’t you a little beam of light,” she continued, nuzzling her nose next to Heidi’s. And at that moment it began to snow, so soft and lovely, that it felt a blessing of the moment rather than an accident of nature.