[Since I started writing, I find myself wanting to write about things unrelated to the topic of this blog. And yet it is. The pre-whatever is always and equally imperative to the project or intention. The Appalachian Trail (or AT, if you will:) is right now in Brooklyn, NY a part of the great trail of living. We are born and move to walk until we die, because we can’t do anything else but feel propelled by some intention, some animation. My journey today concluded with a lot of chocolate on my shoes].
I was fortunate enough to spend time with some very special people today. She found a clear plastic garbage-sized bag of dove chocolate on the street. Score. It was heavy.
The three-legged pit-bull, Gladyce, an uncertain element to our stroll to the park. A bad decision by its resentful, and newly appointed owner to allow the dog off the leash, without the muzzle he came with. Needless to say I guess, the three-legged pit-bull from New Orleans almost/nearly/may have killed a small, innocent dog in the most violent and extreme way. It was scary. Gladyce ran to it from across the park. Teeth were sunk. Small dogs were swinging off leashes with pit-bulls attached to them. Women were screaming. People were yelling. Everyone in the park was …
I felt awful for the dog and the woman to whom he belonged. I was horrified to be with the group that let an angry pit-bull of its leash in the park during a beautiful, peaceful sunset by the water?!?! I could have stopped it if I had been brave enough to kick the pit-bull off of the dog he was trying to disembowel. I could have been a hero. Could have.
Instead I consoled and defended and sympathized with. I truly did; it’s a long story about the dog and its real owner that brings up a lot of questions about responsibility and judgement. But we don’t want to get too into that, now do we? I’m part of the reason the attack happened in the way that it did. But that is just my situation, my circumstance. As I told the angry bystander, “You are right. We are wrong.”
As we “fled the scene”, I grabbed all the shit left behind: a skateboard as well as the bag of found-chocolate. (The “owner”,my new friend, stayed behind to assume responsibility.) I found myself carrying chocolate over my shoulder on a hot day, traumatized, consoling, talking.
–“Why are people pointing at me and talking? Oh, well.”
–“What is that on your legs?”
I do feel a little sticky, come to think of it. No, I’m not letting the dog lick it off of me.