Postcard from Lucky Luna

And a postscript on the politics of why

Main street of a busy industrial town,

weekday, lunch rush, sidewalks crowded with passersby. Springtime, sunny, warm. We stopped by a taqueria, I only heard Spanish, the line snaked out the door. My friend and I took turns waiting with Luna outside. I sat down on a bench while I waited, looped Luna's leash loosely around my wrist, basked in the sun.

Luna stood on her hind legs, waving at people, ears back, wagging her tail. It was like somebody'd told her she was the downtown hound, the giver of kisses, the bringer of joy. She greeted everyone who stopped, reached down to pet her ears. She put her paws on their knees, gazed adoringly up at them, licked their hands. The younger people crouched, put their foreheads to her forehead, gazing into her earnest eyes. The older folks set down their bags, bent at the waist a bit, put one hand on a knee while Luna held their other hand between her paws.

They'd glance at me, smiling. Yo tenia un perro igual a este, they’d say, or igual que el perro con el que crecí, or igual que el perro de mi padre, mi madre, mi abuela — then they'd break off and murmur, communing directly with Luna, buen perro, buen perro, dulce perro.

I had a dog like this one—just like the dog I grew up with—just like my father’s dog, my mother’s, my grandmother’s—

Luna stood patiently, wiggling, clearly understanding every word, her nicked and dinged-up street dog coat getting glossy, gleaming in the sun.

Good dog, good dog, sweet dog.

¿Cómo se llama? (What is her name?)

Luna.

They'd smile. Perro de la luna, they'd murmur. Pequeña señorita de la luna.

Dog of the moon. Little miss moon.

No matter who came by, she'd hop up to greet them and wave again. Everyone who stopped to pet her, anyone who even paused, she reached for their hand, held it in her paws as if to say something, lord knows what.

Do you need anything?

She looked so concerned.

Have you noticed the sunshine? Would you like to pet my ears? It's springtime. You look so sad. Here, I will give you a kiss.

Have you got enough?

The man - young, old, middle-aged, it wasn't clear -

dropped his bags in his excitement and sat down on the sidewalk with Luna, smiling, elated by her ears.

His speech was slightly slurred, and words came slow.

I remember you, he said to Luna. I've seen you, yes.

He looked at me, Luna clambering up into his lap.

I'm happy to see you again, he said, with some effort, eyes alight.

Happy to see you as well, I said. We'd never seen each other.

Luna settled herself against his chest, suddenly stern, upright as a sentry, keeping an eye on everyone who walked by.

I'd only seen her guard like that once before. Late one night, while I was reading in bed, a friend knocked on the Scamp's door and stepped inside. Luna, who had been madly in love with him outside the Scamp, sprang out from under her personal fleece throw, launched herself to the head of the bed, and stood directly in front of my face, barking and growling like she meant it.

No men in the Scamp, I guess.

The man on the sidewalk looked at her while he spoke. The sentences didn't flow exactly but there were clear phrases here and there, so I listened for those.

My mom, he said, gesturing down the street. She acts like I'm a kid.

Yeah? I asked. That's got to be frustrating.

He gestured at his head and made a face. His hair was buzzed, the way you might buzz a boy's just to keep things simple. My dad always said my brothers' hair—black and thick, like this man's—was impossible to cut, so straight you'd take the scissors to it and it'd just bend.

I go to therapy, he said.

Cool, I said. Like physical therapy? Except for your brain?

Yes! he said, so delighted he laughed. His eyes widened. Hard, he said. Phew. It's hard.

For sure, I said.

Slow, he said. Too. Really slow.

He stared solemnly down at Luna, then brightened, remembering to explain.

Strokes! he said. I had. A bunch of strokes. A brain— brain— he gestured as if the words were somewhere near his face but hard to catch. Brain injury! he said, catching them and happily resuming the scritch of Luna's ears.

Man, that sucks, I said. Brains are kind of a pain.

For REAL, he said, nodding fervently, clear as a bell.

We sat quietly for a moment while Luna kept watch.

It's frightening, he said.

I bet it is, I said.

My friend came out of the taqueria, carrying two plastic bags knotted at the top, paused, looked warily at the man with Luna in his lap. I smiled at her, nodded once.

We have to go, I said. I tugged Luna’s leash just gently; she hopped off his lap as he gathered his bags and got to his feet.

Mouth moving slightly as he searched for the words, he said, I forget—

He gestured at the bench, then up and down the street. My friend and I needed to get back to work; the lunch crowd was starting to thin.

I forget, he said, and smiled, and shrugged. That's why it's so nice to see you again. I see you here all the time. For years, I see you here.

Luna turned to him for a last pet.

It is nice, I said. It's nice to see you, too.

Some weeks the state of the nation is such that I can see it,

look at it with at least some measure of detachment, some measure of objective regard.

Some weeks it makes me physically sick.

Neither response is right, neither wrong. Both are reasonable, necessary. If I had no capacity at all to step back, if only briefly, and consider the facts, I couldn't go on; if I'd become so inured to those facts that I no longer felt the upheaval in my body, in my own bones, as the earth shifts and rumbles under my feet, I couldn't stand myself.

Most weeks, though, I spend a lot of time in conversation with people who are living in separate realties, and my patience with people who are choosing the realities they prefer because they can afford to ignore reality as such is wearing thin.

And I will admit that I am writing about something small, joyful, lovely, not just because yes it is true that we need small and joyful and lovely things in our lives but also because the scope of what is going on, the scale of what has already taken place, the prospect of what's coming next, so far exceeds the bounds of what I can address in this space that all I can do this week is acknowledge that I am tired, and I expect you are too, and regardless of who you are and the reality in which you live—

some of you are worried about the value of your stocks

some of you are worried about being disappeared

some of you are fleeing the country

some of you are mad about your credit rating

some of you are booking first-class flights

some of you are waiting all day at the free clinic for your name to be called

some of you are buying cemetery plots with a view

some of you are buying AKs

some of you are scrounging for change beneath the driver's seat in your car

some of you are living in your car

some of you are barely hanging on to the will to live

some of you are lying

some of you are falling in love

some of you are barely alive

—I wish you were here, coming up the street, headed our way, because Luna and I are still sitting on a bench with our faces turned toward the whole great cosmic flood of strangers and whatever comes next, still and always foolishly, foolishly, waving, like one of those waving lucky cats, the Maneki-neko, the ones that never turn off. They just keep waving hello.

Here we are.

Do you need anything?

We wave and wave.

Have you got enough?

Hello, hello.