Sitting Back

A few days ago, I stepped onto the subway and sat down, relieved that I got a seat and that it wasn’t crowded inside.  I looked around the subway car as I always do,  just to scope out the scene.  My eyes stopped at the man sitting across from me, a man probably in his mid-twenties.  He wore dingy clothes and a backpack, and he alternated between taking sips of a Minute Maid fruit juice and nodding off to what must have been an uncomfortable sleep.  Next to him, there was a folded piece of cardboard and a small bag of dog food. What caught my eye, though, and what made me do a double take, was what he carried in his backpack: a dog. 

Now, I have seen my share of the homeless in New York, and usually I don’t give them more than a passing glance.  Maybe it was because this man had a dog with him, but I could not stop staring at him and his companion.  I was fixated.

Every time the man began to doze off, he would slowly lean back–a sign that he was falling deeper and deeper into his sleep. And as he would lean back, the dog would also reluctantly lean back, unable to control the angle of  his body.   And each time, just as I thought the dog was about to get crushed by the weight of his owner who leaned further and further back, the man would jolt his body back to upright position and pet the dog’s head–a gesture to reassure the dog that his owner knew he was back there. 

This went on for about ten minutes. 

Since there were so few people on the subway, only the girl sitting next to me and I knew there was a dog with his head sticking out sitting in the backpack.  The other four or five passengers were clueless.  I think the girl and I had the same thoughts running through our heads (What is this guy’s story? How did he acquire this dog? Is there anything we can do to help him?), but we didn’t acknowledge that–we were too mesmerized by the scene in front of us.   

At one point, I noticed that the girl had taken her wallet out of her purse–something I would probably never do on the subway.  She unzipped the wallet and started fingering through her money; I guessed she was looking for a single or two to give to the man and his dog.  But after a few seconds, she zipped her wallet back up without taking anything out and got off at the next stop.   She must not have had any small bills in there.  

I thought about doing the same.  But it was just that: a thought.  I didn’t actually unzip my purse, didn’t actually take out my wallet, didn’t actually even attempt to give the illusion that I wanted to help this man and his dog.

A stop before mine, the man got off the subway and lifted the dog out of his backpack.  They were probably making their way to a street corner to settle  in and beg for money.   At this point, the other passengers noticed and gasped at the sight of a twenty-five pound dog they were oblivious to just seconds before.  

 Normally I would want to follow them out of the subway and run up and snatch the dog away from his owner.  Normally I would want to try and give the dog a better life and a chance to thrive. 

But I didn’t even budge.  I could tell the dog was happy.

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