Soapbox

     He was a houndish sort of a dog,  a sturdy, dependable mutt, his coat the color of sensible brown shoes. He trotted placidly alongside his owner as the man pushed a shopping cart filled with plastic bags over the rutted, half-frozen earth to the end of the freeway exit ramp.
One of those people.
      I contemplated the red light ahead of me and watched from the corner of my eye while the man began to root around in his cart for his battered cardboard sign. They were close enough now I could see that the dog's muzzle was mostly gray. His eyes were steady and calm, a demeanor that said he'd been here before, standing among the loud, smelly traffic in the deepening gloom of a winter afternoon , and knew he would be here again.
      I also saw that the sporty little red coat he wore had been fashioned out of parts of an old jacket carefully pinned in front and tied together under his belly.
 

      Some people say that you shouldn't give money to these freeway beggers- it encourages more to come, and they probably aren't really veterans/ homeless/parents like they claim but often I will slip one a dollar, particularly when the weather is foul and their raw, red fingers make my own ache or their gaze is just so empty of hope that i need to fill it with something. And anyway, it costs so little to believe in people, and deep inside, costs so much to ignore them.
      Careful not to telegraph my intentions because I had not yet made up my mind, I reached  into my purse on the seat next to me, slipped stealthy fingers into my wallet but discovered I had nothing smaller than a five dollar bill, started to close my wallet again.

      The dog sat down patiently next to his owner, Good dog who smoothed his hand lettered sign against his chest.
      "My dog and I need some help for food and rent" it said.

      I stared at the traffic light a moment longer  through the mist gathering on the windshield, considered that little red coat, so carefully constructed, pulled out the five dollar bill, rolled down my window and smiled. The man hurried over, aware that the light would change soon. In a soft drawl that recalled warmer places, he thanked me more than a mere $5 should ever warrant in America.
      "What's your dog's name?" I asked, leaned out the window to stroke the silky head and look into trusting, liquid eyes.
      "This is Rocky" the man said.
      "Well Merry Christmas to you and Rocky" I said as the light turned green and I pulled away eager to get home to start dinner, hoping to find time to decorate the Christmas tree tonight. I was feeling just a bit pleased with my own generosity- 5 dollars, after all!- and for treating that man like a person when so many others look away.