He stops me in the street

crouches against the dustbin                                                                           

to pat Bailey;

fur tizzies into air as the stranger                                            

nuzzles into him, scratches his head.

He has lost his dog.

Snoopy, he tells me, a Staffie too.

He smiles, sadly,

beside the stench of garbage,

offers me a dog’s leash no longer needed.

He tells me Staffies are gentle,

nanny dogs—not what people think they are;

his voice is refined, incongruous.

He imitates a drinking gesture;                                                            

be back in a moment, he says.

His name is Christian.

We walk the street together,

his purchase in a brown bag,

a box of washing powder under his arm                                                        

and stories of Snoopy between us;

they had loved each other nine years,

his longest relationship.

He unlocks the door to his home;                                            

I hadn’t expected we’d be going inside.                     

The door opens to another.                                                                              

I hesitate, close both doors behind me,                       

locked in with a stranger.

Cigarettes, aloneness                                                                                       

and dog, we creak up the stairs                                                                      

to a place no one could call home:

velvet single-seater in a doorway, a dog’s bed,

huge TV, a half-mauled teddy.

He shows me a photo of Snoopy

and my eyes take in a smiling black dog,

a pile of pizza vouchers, junk mail,

dishes stacked, half-washed,

half-dirty; there is nowhere to sit.

She died of cancer.

He fills a dog bowl with water,

watches Bailey slop it everywhere;

he speaks of his joy

in the slobbering sound.

I wonder what I’m doing here, feel sad

and stupid at once when he shows me

an article about him, in trouble with the cops.                                    

It wasn’t my fault, he says,

as he fills my arms with a dirty dog’s jacket,

the leash he promised, and a sturdy harness

just right for a Staffie.

He shoves it all in a Lidl bag.

I hold its torn handle

while we talk:

he’d wanted to sail around the world,

he had sailed as a kid, but he had no money,

his last girlfriend was nine years ago,

there were druggies living nearby, they were scary,

he had dreams.

He lets me out the front door.                                      

The door shuts; I am glad I made it out.

When I get home, I put the Lidl bag

full of Snoopy’s things

into a cupboard;                                                                                              

I told Christian I would keep them.                                                                                                                

 © Lisa Reily

Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. Her poetry and stories have been published in several journals, such as Panoply, Amaryllis, Riggwelter, River Teeth Journal (Beautiful Things), and Magma. Lisa is currently a full-time budget traveller. You can find her at lisareily.wordpress.com.