They had one dog in the grocery cart and another was pulling down the wharf towards Portland. The man steered, but barely. Seven paces behind the man, a woman was stumbling behind who had either been crying a lot or who was coming down off of spice, or both. The sled dog leading the procession was beautiful pit mix, mostly a chalky white with black spots, like drop from a leaking fountain pen.

The man and I exchanged nods. I smiled at the pit, and she started to pull the entire parade towards me. The man kept her on track. He smiled. “She could almost pull this thing herself,” he said.

“That one’s riding,” the woman told me, pointing to the brown lab mutt in the cart, “because someone left her to die in the tunnel back there. She can’t walk.” She pointed back towards the tunnel under the I-64 off ramp onto River Road. Street folks used to sleep there when the weather was bad, but the city parking bulls and LMPD pushed everyone out before the end of last boat season. Pushed them out into the rain, harassed and took their pictures with cell phones, threatening to arrest them if they ever showed up again. They probably showed those pictures to their thin blue line friends at the bar when they were off shift. Shared a laugh all the way around. Since they weren’t allowed to sleep there, folks sometimes shit there.