THE CONTRACT WITH DOGS

There is a street corner in Austin where I often linger at a bus stop all but obscured by shrubbery growing through a chain-link fence. The fence, like the house it surrounds, has seen better decades. This humble dwelling is interesting from a textural standpoint – with weathered wood and striated stone and a tilting stack of salmon-colored brick that was once a functioning chimney. This all looks remarkably old-world, surrounded by tufts of pine branch and drapes of moss. One could almost imagine Hansel and Gretel inside, gleefully basting a witch.

More often than not, there is a dog in the yard – a black and brown mutt who usually wanders over to help me wait for the bus. He stands and eventually sits beside me, on his side of the fence. I try to explain the bus schedule to the dog, which sets his internal pendulum in motion and causes him to inch closer, pushing the tip of his damp muzzle through the wire mesh. He sits patiently, looking up with doleful appraisal.

I always resist the temptation to pet the dog. This is an egregious omission on my part, considering our contract with dogs. Eons ago, when we were grunting savages in animal skins and dogs were still the scavenging camp wolves skittishly eating our leftovers, a sacred pact was struck. It was not a complicated bargain. The dogs would be our companions. They would warn us of approaching danger. Some of the more aggressive canines would protect us and work for us. And a few would even become unpaid spokesmodels. All we had to do in return was continue feeding them and offer a modicum of tactile validation. Eventually, a healthcare clause was added, but that’s it. That’s the deal. I’m quite certain dogs have often wished for a renegotiation of terms.

But I never pet this dog. To do that, it would be necessary for me to shove my hand through the fence, or lean over the top – and this could be interpreted as intrusive by someone living in the house. Someone who probably owns a shotgun.

The eyes beg. The tail wags. I tell myself the dog isn’t really sad. That’s just how his face was designed. Oh, sure, he would appreciate a pat on the head, but he certainly won’t cry himself to sleep if I don’t comply. He’s not that fragile. He’s a dog. And soon, there will be a new pursuit, and my lack of attention will be forgotten. Seriously. In spite of the antics of the aforementioned overachievers, most dogs aren’t really very bright.

He usually draws the same conclusion about me, and walks away – wandering around, sniffing things on the ground.

But today, I had to wait for the bus alone. There was no dog in the yard. The property was devoid of wildlife, except for a few grackles, walking and nodding like mynah birds in an old MGM cartoon.

Left to its own devices, my mind wanders to another street and a different bus stop. This one stands on the sidewalk of a wide thoroughfare, where a great deal of vehicular and pedestrian traffic passes. Bicyclists also travel this road in packs. There is a 350-acre park nearby and an abundance of restaurants and food trailers. In fact, trailers in general – or mobile homes – represent a large, unapologetic presence on this street. The bus stop in question stands just outside the entrance to a cheerfully well-tended mobile home park, where irony and necessity have collided to create an aggressively retro habitat. It is from the depths of this kitschy aluminum jungle that a large white cat almost always emerges to greet me. Talking incessantly, this friendly creature flops to the ground at my feet, snaking and stretching like a purring contortionist. The cat invariably rubs against me, depositing white cat hair and dried grass clippings on my pant legs.

I always pet the cat and tell it to go home. I don’t dislike cats, but I seriously want this one to go away, and not only because of the hair adorning my pants. The proximity of the street makes me nervous. This is a healthy, well-fed animal with tags and a bell, and obviously belongs to one of the nearby Airstream dwellers, but the pavement two feet away from the bus stop is extremely hazardous … and I’ve read Pet Sematary. Twice.

The cat doesn’t understand English and refuses to leave. I might be ignored for a few seconds, while the strict code of feline grooming overrides all other distractions, but the talking and twisting and rubbing is always on continuous replay. And, foolishly, I continue to gesture nonspecifically, and tell the cat to go home.

This always ends the same way. A bus pulls up and the cat inflates like a blowfish and streaks away with a hiss … and I climb aboard the bus with cat hair on my trousers.

I’ve never really considered our contract with cats. I suspect it might still be in committee.

Back at the original bus stop corner, a black Labrador appears with a cheerful and energetic young woman in tow, jarring me from my contemplation. Almost immediately, a deep, resounding bark from somewhere inside the house acknowledges this intrusion. My canine friend, doing his job.

The grackles fly away, and the dutiful barking continues until the Lab is halfway down the next block.

Good boy.