the parked dog

I watched a cross-breed dog parked behind the Old Crag Cabin on the wooden steps above the cold flagstones. His German Shepherd hips sat on the top step, his front paws one step down. He never took his dark eyes off the café line-up beyond the picture windows. Regularly, his black nose twitched: could he smell Chai through the glass? He lifted one front paw, then the other, waiting. I was fascinated by the long wisps of fur that extended out from within his triangular ears. I thought of lynx, and my dear friend whose eyelashes spring from her tear ducts.