Lady At The Downtown Mall

The woman was standing next to my gold Toyota Camry, peering through the window at my two Border Collies. I had just walked out of the Apple Store and was not expecting this. Downtown Redding has a lot of transients and homeless people, folks who talk to themselves. There is a Greyhound bus station next door, and many of them seem to gather near there. I could see that the woman, old and somewhat haggard, was very much intrigued with my dogs.

I called out to her, “You have found two friends there!”

She was startled by my comment, and she stepped away from the car. I had the feeling that “normal” folks had scolded her in the past.

I spoke to her briefly as I got into my car, waiting for the usual: Do you have any spare change? But the question never came. Instead, she walked a wide, apologetic, perimeter around me, up to the front of my car near the parking meter. I put on my seatbelt and noticed her standing by the meter mesmerized by my dogs. My dogs are very friendly. They love people and they tend to show it. Dart, my male Border Collie, was showing it by jogging-in-place on the front passenger seat.

There was something about this woman, something childlike, though she was clearly not a child. She had medium length stringy, unwashed, and somewhat tangled gray hair. She appeared to be wearing, or carrying, every bit of clothing she owned, a small duffle in her left hand and a rolled up sleeping bag in her right. She wore a red ski parka, even though it was a warm afternoon. The hood was pulled up over her head. She had mittens on. She looked around sixty years old with the skin of a street veteran.

I could not put my finger on it. There was something in her voice, her mannerism. In many ways, she was a typical street person, yet she wasn’t. Like a child at a zoo, she was fixated on my dogs. For some reason, I couldn’t start the car just then. I rolled down the passenger side window and invited her to come over. Her eyes lit up with excitement, and she almost danced over to the window where my equally excited male dog was waiting. His whole body wiggled as he jogged-in-place!

“My dogs are friendly,” I told her. “This one’s name is Dart, and the female in the back seat is named Mettle.”

It is impossible for Dart to contain his joy when he is happy, and it was apparently likewise for the woman. She reached out to touch Dart, and then Dart began licking her face. The woman seemed to stop breathing, her eyes closing as she put her hands on Dart’s head and held him close, hugging him. She was like a child holding a puppy, almost overcome with joy.

She spoke, “Oh, I love these dogs. These are Border Collies. I have a Border Collie named Marsha. If you are nice to them, they will protect you.”

I suspected that she probably did not have a dog named Marsha. If she ever did, it was probably a long time ago. This woman had seen many years on the street, and the wear and tear showed. She spoke with the innocence of a 12-year-old little girl, and still, she had not asked if I had any spare change.

She repeated, “My dog’s name is Marsha. If you are nice to them, they will protect you.”

I did not get the feeling that this woman was a drug addict or alcoholic, but rather just very childlike.

Then she asked me, “What is your name?”

I answered, “John.”

“My name is Debby.”

After a few minutes of what seemed like pure joy for Debby, Dart, and Mettle, I told Debby that it was very nice to meet her, and that I hoped she had a nice day. I figured that this would be the time when she would pop the usual question about money. But she didn’t.

“Have a nice day,” she said simply.

As I drove away, I could see Debby in the rear view mirror, still fixated on my two dogs. Dart had jumped to the back seat, his head pressed against the rear window. Mettle was looking too.

On the way home, I wondered about Debby’s journey through life. What had brought her to the streets of Redding? The sight of Debby in the mirror haunted me. Driving up Market Street toward my house in Shasta Lake, several things about Debby ruminated in my mind. Not one time did she ask me for money. She seemed to have the mental age of a twelve-year-old, kind and gentle, but somehow also a survivor. I thought to myself that somebody, long in the past, gave Debby her name. I wondered about those people. Perhaps I am reading too much into this, but I envisioned a life of trouble for Debby, trying to learn, trying to fit in. Perhaps she had parents or guardians years ago who took care of her, but then they grew too old and passed away. They probably worried about Debby and what would happen to her after they were gone. Now, here she was; she and I had crossed paths. She had adapted to the street the best she could. Debby looked as though people had helped her some along the way, but not quite enough. I thought to myself that I did not do quite enough either, and that maybe I should return and try to learn more about Debby.

I didn’t though. I didn’t.

Another thought: My dogs never once judged Debby. How much better dogs than people, I thought. To Dart and Mettle, Debby was just another human. Humans scratch your ears. They rub you. They talk sweetly to you. Humans provide. My dogs treated Debby with the same cordial greeting that they give to all humans. Debby loved my dogs because, for a brief while, she was not being judged. Something so rare had occurred for Debby: someone had been genuinely happy to see her.

I thought about the coldness of our system, a system that likes to pigeonhole people into productive and non-productive, the former being good Americans, the latter being a drain on society. We sometimes forget that there are decent folks out there, parents of adult children who are not quite right. These parents wonder and worry about what will become of their adult children when they are gone. As a society, how do we answer that question?

As I stopped by my local health food store to pick up some rather expensive vitamins, I thought to myself about the luxury of being able to buy vitamins. Here, I should probably add that the vitamins were for my dogs. Debby probably survives on a very poor diet at best. Vitamins are not even on the radar screen for her. Like most Americans, I worry about money. But, on the way home, I worried a bit less.

Finally, I wondered how many people are just like Debby, innocent souls who simply live on the ragged edge of survival every day, sleeping at night in different places, some safe, some not, with no dreams other than survival day to day - people who love dogs and dogs love them. There is the criminal element of course, but not every homeless person is a criminal. What do we do with our fellow citizens who aren’t-quite-right, not criminals, but not productive either?

I do not have the answers.

Tonight, I will sleep in a nice warm bed. I have gas heat, plenty of logs for the fireplace, a couple of good dogs to keep me warm. I will no doubt have a nice dinner and watch some TV before bedtime, maybe do a little light reading. But, tonight I will say a little prayer for Debby too. Debby, wherever you are tonight, I hope you are safe. I hope you remember Dart and Mettle, and that their memory will give you some happiness still. I hope that Marsha will be with you, even if only in your dreams. Take good care of Marsha Debby. If you take care of her, she will protect you.

As I close, I can hear thunder in the distance.