There, but for the Grace of God...

I was walking my puppy this morning....a 65 pound ball of energy anxious to chase every bird, jump in every puddle and streak up (and then down) every hillside. It was a crisp fall Northern California afternoon. The air was heavy with the smell of Bay Laurel, and the dampness from the heavy rains of yesterday held the promise of winter. Still, the pools of sunshine were still warm, and it was one of those days when a sweatshirt was at once not enough and way too much.

After watching the pup frolic for nearly an hour, it was time to head home. We came upon a scraggly looking fellow on the trail. The puppy barked his fierce bark he reserves for moments when he is startled or truly scared. The man was skinny, and a bit unkempt, and it was quickly apparent that he lived in these woods, near the bottom of this canyon...perhaps in a cave, a storm drain, or some other inadequate type of structure he called “home”. He was belligerent, shouting curses at me and telling me to leash my dog lest he “kick its ass” I daresay the dog might outweigh him. His abrasive demeanor caught me off guard, and I said nothing after calling the dog and attaching his leash. He stalked off muttering, cursing, perhaps baiting me to say something. I sized him up. I have never thrown a punch in anger. Somehow his verbal assault on my dog was bringing my blood to boil. Always a first for everything.

Happily, he took the fork in the trail away from our destination, and we headed up the canyon in a series of switchbacks. After a few minutes, I felt safe to take the dog off leash again, and he happily bounded ahead on the trail, chasing imaginary varmints, and slipping and sliding up and down the slopes. Out of the quiet, the hiker bellowed across the canyon that I better leash my menace of a dog or he would call the pound. His language was a bit more colorful than that, and it was clear he had been stewing on this for the 5 or 6 minutes since our paths had last crossed. There was, if possible, even more anger in his voice than there had been when he was nearer to us.

“The dog is the least of your troubles, dude! Why don’t you come over here and I’ll show you why!” I shouted at the canyon, the hiker invisible in the foliage. I looked around and quickly identified a baseball bat size stick. I awaited a response, but none was offered. Was I serious, I wondered? Was I really going to take on this poor sap? And truth be told, though I have never been in a fight, it occurred to me that he might have been in a scrap or two in his day. Rather than wait to see if he elected to pursue the matter face to face, I leashed the dog and headed up the trail and onward to the safety of the parked car.

As my anger stilled, and my heart rate returned to normal, I began to ponder the incident. How must it be to be a homeless guy, living near a trail popular with folks walking their dogs? How many times a day, or a week, is he hassled by dogs? How many times has he been bitten or chased out of his shelter? How many dogs had discovered his food stash and helped themselves?

I assumed his homelessness was not a choice he had made. He looked grizzled, far older in appearance than in actual years and I imagined he had survived a lot of tough days...grouped together in years or even decades. I was, moments before, ready to take a swing at him or strike him with an oak branch, but a few moments of consideration put a bit different spin on things.
Our nation is heading into tough times. Though I remain hopeful that the election will return some sense of hope to the nation, it is clear that there are still rough waters to be navigated. Foreclosures, unemployment and bankruptcy... how far behind can homelessness be? Was I mad at this guy because he hated my dog, or did I fear what he represented....our nation’s future? My future? I sure hope not...hope being the operative word. Just like I am sure he did not choose the life he had been handed, there will be others that follow his path, despite their efforts, despite their hopes and dreams.