I hadn’t planned to stop that day. My schedule was packed, work calls were piling up, and unread messages reminded me of a meeting I had already forgotten. The winter wind cut through my gloves as I rounded the corner at 8th and Marshall, passing the same old pharmacy I always walked by.
And there they were—just like always. A man and his dog. He sat quietly on the sidewalk, wearing a worn brown jacket that didn’t quite fit. His sleeves were too short, revealing thin wrists red from the cold. The dog, a black-and-white mix with a tired but gentle expression, lay curled in his lap. The two of them looked like they belonged to each other more than they belonged to the street.
I had passed them many times before. They never asked for anything. Never held a sign. But something about them always made me pause inside, even if I didn’t stop walking. That day, maybe it was the weight of everything—or maybe it was the need to reconnect—but I stopped.
My bag was heavier than usual. I had leftover food, some snacks, even fruit I probably wouldn’t eat. I crouched down and asked softly, “Would you like something to eat?”
The man looked at me. His eyes were cautious but kind. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he gently stroked the dog’s head. Then he said, “I’ll eat when he eats.”
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