to become a gang member

   Dog gang comes to us, friendly. Our friend out of breath, asthma attack, desperately digging around the backpack for a bottle of water. They lick our hands asking for pets, the tails moving around frantically. One of them jumps on her, sat at the sidewalk recovering, licks her face. That terrible moment of despairturns heartwarming with the playful spirit of the stray dogs.

   We still need to walk a few blocks to get her somewhere more comfortable and, to our surprise, they wouldn’t stay put as we asked or stray away to their business, despite understanding we could not give them anymore attention. So they begin to silently escort us.

   There were five dogs in formation around us. The small caramel one stayed back, while the two white ones protected the left and the right. The black one was surely the leader, staying up front, always keeping the chin up and looking straight forward, sometimes over the shoulder to make sure we were still walking — beside him was his right hand: a big caramel dog twice his size, with a heart just as big. They accompanied us until we got home, and we said our thanks with the best pets and scratches. Sadly, that was also a goodbye, and it hurt to see how hard they tried to come in with us. But the door closed, and it was now on all of us to forget.

   After some nice hot tea, came up the topic of me getting home. My house, though, was still five miles away and I had to get there until dawn.

   “Are you sure you don’t want an Uber? You’re still pretty fucked up.” Goo asks.

   “I have legs, don’t I? god gave me these to save money, sweetie.” I respond, making my way to the front door.

   Outside I find three of the dogs curled up together in the cold porch. King, the black dog, comes to me as soon as the door opens, licks my hands, his eyes begging for attention. Then comes Coffey, big caramel boy, to occupy my left hand. Finally Wee Man, the smallest caramel dog, tries to approach me and is harshly reprimanded by King. I giggle at that simplistic form of military hierarchy, and start walking —, they come right behind —, there’s a long way up ahead.

   Tonight I learned more about dogs than at any other time in my life. Those three new-found friends accepted me into their gang so easily, for nothing but a simple gesture of care, and just like that began to treat me with immense loyalty. If I turned right they would turn right, if I turned left they would just as well. When walking through dark alleys they would come closer; if anybody came near me would be received with growls and angry barks of warning. I felt secure with them, their simple logic of affection affecting me deeply, made me rethink my own ways, — later on, — recognize in myself and others a kind of quality so simplistic, so animalistic, of uncomplicated acceptance of our own necessities, of our own desires. It was then, inebriated at the beginning of a hangover, that I fully understood how close the human is to the animal. So I stopped, crouched down and pet them a little more.

   After a while, I noticed Wee Man was gone. The little one, constantly abused by King, probably just got fed up and walked away. Now we were only three, and going through the last dangerous hood before my apartment. A slope, going up a few hundred meters. That was the home of another gang of stray dogs: known to me, we were also friends, but not to King and Coffey. By now we were really far from their turf, from the part of the city under King’s rule, and at the foot of the slope, from the darkness under a broken lamppost, came a dog growling ferocious. That was Bundy, the Pussy Slayer, a much docile buddy that loved to follow me to the park and play, and that now had killer eyes threatening my life, coming closer slowly, waiting for an onrush. That’s when King jumped in front of me and started barking, then came Coffey, that would bark even louder, and four other dogs from Bundy’s gang came from the shadows and started barking too. Sneakily I moved, carefully, out of that fight. King came with me and we ran while Coffey handled the five dogs by himself. At the top of the slope we were safe, but King stayed alert, looking back into the darkness where we could only hear the loud noisy mess of a dog fight.

   For long we waited, but no sign of Coffey. King lowered down his tail and started walking. I followed him, still worried about our friend caught trapped at the wrong hood, but to my surprise the loud noise of long claws hitting the asphalt came to ears. At the corner turned Coffey, running, Bundy stayed behind at the top of the slope, clearly stating none of us were welcome there ever again. He had somewhat a smile on his face, that lovely giant caramel bastard, and I took him with open arms, thanking his bravery. King, on the other hand, stayed serious, worried about the future, about the way back home, and I realized that I was in no place for comforting him. What would happen at the end of our journey? I could not just take them with me. I already had to suck dick to keep my small housecat, imagine two adult stray dogs.

   The rest of the way was very somber. Not because of more broken lampposts, or dark alleys, but because I knew how hard it would be to leave them behind. Imagining them curled up outside in the cold, waiting for me to come back, only to get kicked out in the morning by the concierge. But there’s nothing I could do to help. Already have way too many problems to worry about, right? Real life is not so adventurous everyday, and my shitty apartment doesn’t have what the streets can give them, I’m sure. There’s nothing I could do, nothing I could’ve done. When the door closed it was final, we were much too different, now it was on all of us to forget.