Patience

"Can you help me?" A woman in her 80s, her body a series of well chewed toothpicks somehow glued together is trying to pull upright with a leash an old chocolate lab lying on the grass. "Come on Sam, Come on," She was saying.
I look down at sad charming eyes and greying snout.
"My dog isn't moving."

As I approach his tail starts to wag, and he looks up in hope. I lean down and start giving his hips a deep massage.

It is 4:30 in the afternoon and I am headed to Target. I have to go home, change and be in Northridge by 7, but I have plenty of time. My Target store is but a 15 minute bus ride to Woodland Hills.

His fur is greasy and dandruff, or the doggy equivalent--skin scab remainder--sticks to my fingers.
"Oh he loves that!"
"What a sweetheart," I give him more rubs.

"He's the best. I know he's very old, but I can't let him go. We take care of each other."

After a few minutes of love, I stand up.
"Bye Sam. It was nice meeting you."

Walking on, I turn back occasionally. She is still tugging at his collar, trying to pull him up.

I realize that, while they appreciated the greeting, I had not helped.
I shout back, "Do you want me to lift him?"
"Oh, could you? He would really love that!"

I walk back to the dog, still cemented to the ground.
Gently, I hug his stomach and lift, as the woman continues to pull on his collar.
His wobbly back legs seem ready to fold, then, like a precariously balanced easel, he nearly falls over. I hold on as he slowly moves his legs.
"Thank you so much. He'll be ok now."

It doesn't look like it. His back legs are crisscrossed, and they seem to just drag along as he pulls forward in the front, with her help.
"We're ok. Thank you so much."

I walk away, looking back frequently. "Come on. Come on," she continues to coax him along.

I arrive at the bus stop about 4:45. A half dozen people are waiting. At this time on a weekday, a bus is scheduled to come at least every 7 minutes. Knowing I have to be back at my house by 6, I start getting a little anxious when 5 rolls around. 5:05, 5:10, 5:15. That's it! I turn around and head back home.

It is getting dark as I pass the little plot of grass where my old friend lay. The warmth of a dog smile rises from crumpled oak twigs.