I have been hired to tell life stories of fascinating San Diegans. People who cannot afford to buy a book, much less pay someone to write their memoir, also have stories that should be told. Here is one.
I frequently take my Mini-Aussie GiGi, to the local dog park. On every visit, I have noticed an older woman, tidy and clean but typically attired in the same worn apparel, with five tiny dogs who relax on chairs and take turns nestling on her lap. The dogs, all rescues, as she would explain, are also elderly, ranging in age from 12-17. “I had eight,” she would tell me, “but I lost three over the last year.”
The lady is friendly but guarded; sometimes napping or appearing lost in her thoughts. On many a late afternoon, I have watched her slowly gather up her dogs, trudge out of the park and painstakingly fit them, one by one, into her old and tired-looking van. The process takes 20 minutes or more.
On a recent cold and drizzly day, she and I were the only humans at the park. We got to talking. I told her my name. She shared only her initial; let’s call her B.
“I used to have a home, but I lost it,” remarked B without a trace of self-pity. “My dogs and I live in my van. It’s cramped,” she acknowledged with a weary sigh.
Every morning, B goes to a shelter for breakfast and, if the line isn’t too long (“I don’t like to leave my dogs alone”), a shower. Then they head to the dog park for the day.
“We have nowhere else to go. I don’t tell anyone where I park the van at night. I’ll get rousted, even though all I’m doing is sleeping.”
I asked if she might be eligible for housing. Again, she sighed, more heavily, pointing to her beloved canines. “Those places don’t accept pets and I’m all these guys have in the world.”
I hope that someday, after her dogs have lived out their lives in comfort and love, B finds a decent apartment set aside for low- or no-income people. But what would happen, I wonder, if as she walks into an office, step-by-slow-step, to sign her lease, she spots a small, bedraggled, frail and lonely old dog that someone has abandoned on the street, not caring whether the dog lives or dies.
So many humans and canines; living, breathing, feeling creatures; hidden in plain sight; hoping to be rescued; too proud to ask for help but too in need not to accept it. The day we spoke, I pressed a $20 bill into B’s hand. “You might use this to buy food for your dogs,” I said, hoping I had not offended her with my offer. “Oh yes,” she smiled brightly, providing a glimpse into the person she once was.
“And dinner for me.”
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