I realize from the photos I post with this blog, you may think no actual humans exist in this town. Although I do write about them, I just don’t take photos of their faces, etc. Some whole human carried the above pair of sunglasses on their face (or at least somewhere on their person). I did not see that situation since I came across them abandoned. I imagine they tumbled out of someone’s bag/pocket/kangaroo pouch without them knowing, then some other human picked them up and set them here, maybe figuring said person would come back looking for them. Or, in some alternate universe, the owner broke up with them. Maybe they got in a fight. “You don’t actually shade my eyes as well as I want you to.” “Well if you’d wear me correctly, actually on your face rather than pushed back as a hair holder, I might be able to do my job.” “No, I’ve decided that you really don’t suit my style anymore. I’m just going to set you here on this ledge.” “WHAT? NO. You can’t just leave me here. Alone.” “You’ll be fine. Someone else who loves you better will pick you up.” Person drives off.

I make up stories about all kinds of things, a lot of them actual humans. Outside the office window where I write I can watch the neighbors pass by on foot every day. They’re on foot because their canine companions need them to accompany them in their daily exercise/relief ritual. Dogs need that type of teamwork and it looks like the humans attached to them enjoy it too. There’s Winston and his three-legged dog. They journey out multiple times a day. He’s a chatter (Winston, the human) and has told us his origin story (widowed, lived here for decades) along with his pup’s, whose name I’ve forgotten (gah), and how the little guy lost a leg to cancer, yet adapted in no time and always looks like he’s smiling (this is actually true). The story winds its way to a happy moral end of “see, we can always be glad for what we’ve got and overcome challenges,” then Winston and the smiley guy move on. Lately, Winston has had another wee-one on their walks. This little lady belongs to the neighbor. She (the owner) is under the weather and so now fluffy (the dog) accompanies Winston and his pal on their walks. Billy and Barb (humans), across the way, have two little ones as well. One of them is a barker in that way that happens when small dogs want you to know they might look tiny, but damn, they’re tough as hell, so don’t even think of crossing them. She/he achieves a sort of levitation when the barking gets going. We all understand this pup, between the two of them, is the most sensitive. The other, I feel, is the tough one, silence being deceptive. ANyhoo, Billy, Barb, and crew also go out multiple times a day, although recently Barb has been absent from the excursions and I’ve grown worried, Being a nosy neighbor, I’ve kept an ear out to see if anyone might ask Billy how (or where) Barb is. Yes, I know I could just ask him myself, but I’m often shy of starting conversations I may not know how to get out of. People round here are quite talkative. (I sometimes don’t actually understand how I was a journalist for my career.) But my dedicated listening out the window has informed me that Barb has been under the weather. Nothing too serious (i.e., she’s not in the hospital) and I’ve seen her moving slowly around in the past week with the strong-silent furry, who appears quite patient about their new slower pace. Then there’s perpendicular-man, so-called because he has three large dog pals he walks on the regular who are very strong (one German Shepherd, two big mutts) and he must lean all the way back, balancing some sort of tension between the leash and his person in order to keep control and not be pulled off his feet. At least I think that’s what’s happening. It’s a bit like a circus act really. They set off and sometimes I won’t see them for a very long time. The other day, on one of my walks near the library where there’s a park, a car pulled up and perpendicular-man got out, the dogs scrabbling from the backseat, and they all romped.

Then there are the solo fliers. Those folks who just sally forth animal-free. Backward-walking man is one such character. He has no leash to hold, yet he does always have a walking stick, a safari hat, and a mask. He literally walks backward out of our complex and down the sidewalk. Sometimes I worry he’ll trip, but I guess that’s what the stick is for. One day I saw him a couple of blocks away—walking forward—stopping here and there to pick up trash. I appreciate him. (He and his wife also made comment on the Biden/Harris sticker proudly displayed on our truck last fall. He was happy to see it, though he commented that we were brave for having it out there for all to see since he wasn’t sure how the neighbors might feel about our politics—naturally this made me sad and incredulous. He also let us know how angry he still was at Hillary for blowing it. At that point, his wife intervened with “now, dear” and he grumbled into his car.) It’s funny how all these folks pass in front of me and to a certain degree I write their stories in my head. I get a lot of inspiration watching them. Then there are the strictly aural moments. The Bickersons (as I’ve named our constantly fighting next-door neighbors). If I could make them into music, he’d be an endless about-to-explode, low rumble b-flat bassoon with her plink, plink, c-sharp hitting over and over and over. Reminding me of a John Cage performance I went to in NYC early days at Brooklyn Academy of Music. At intermission, I felt I was supposed to say something to the people I was with about the piece, but because I didn’t understand it or like it, not to mention, it made me want to flee, I nodded my head as everyone talked about its braveness and groundbreaking qualities. The Bickerson’s are neither brave nor groundbreaking. They make me sad. But then there is a woman who walks in the early morning who sings scales and that’s lovely. She manages to balance out the Bickersons on occasion.

Yesterday, Dennis got in the truck with his tools and headed up to Washington state to be a kitchen remodeler for his brother. I tra-la-la’d around getting my solo sea legs under me. This morning, as we talked, he wondered how our friend Rennard was. (He who has been featured in a few earlier blog posts and a character who traveled cross-country with us. Yes, we are adult people. He is plush.) He normally sits on a ledge above the head of the bed. When Dennis asked this morning about him, I said, “he’s fine.” I was then asked to check on him and imagine my shock when he wasn’t there. It seems he’d stowed away in the truck to take the ride with Dennis out of the state. (Again, yes, we are grown humans talking about a stuffed fox.) Here’s the thing about that: I’d been so used to him (Rennard) being in his spot that I took it for granted he’d be there. Have you ever done that? Just assumed, sure that thing that’s always been there is there. Don’t even see it anymore. I now realize how my observational skills go so easily into auto-pilot. I obviously know Dennis isn’t here. I both miss and appreciate him in his absence. I’m also appreciating the opportunity to fly solo for a bit, which helps me not take him for granted. Sharpening the eyes and ears, rooting out some more characters for my collection.