Today, I am introducing my dog, Roger, who is a rescue dog from West Virginia. He is a handsome lad, indeed. But we do not know his precise age, though we are reasonably sure that he falls somewhere between 15 months and two years old.
Nor do we know his heritage. We suspect there is an ample dose of border collie in him; perhaps a dash of German shepherd. On our walk today, a nice woman suggested he was of Burmese extraction.
I don’t know. About all I know is that Roger weighs 45 pounds and that’s as big as he’ll get.
Early this morning, we took our usual walk-route– starting at the Yonkers bridge over the Bronx River Parkway and onward to the wide, grassy plain that spreads out five or six feet below Paxton Avenue in Bronxville. When there’s a hard rain, this area quickly fills up like a bathtub and overflows into the basements and garages of nearby homes.
I used to walk with my previous dog, Amy, along the Bronx River which never fails to deliver a lesson or two about the cycle of life– all of which would go unnoticed if I didn’t have a dog in the first place.
Dogs have an uncanny knack for finding dead things. Amy once found a squirrel carcass, that slowly decomposed and disappeared with each passing day, until all that was left was a thin stick of vertebra and a tiny skull. Then the bones disappeared, too.
Once Amy found a headless chicken. Must have been the leftover of a cult ritual. Weird stuff goes on at the river.
Walking with Roger on Mother’s Day, I found a $1 bill. Our lucky day.
Today, we found a dead Oriole, the photo of which accompanies this entry. Roger tried to grab it, but I held him back.
We also saw a snowy egret, very much alive.