I can still hear the dog whimpering as my uncle opened his car door and told it to go away. We were visiting relatives and a stray had made itself comfortable on my great grandmother’s front porch. Had I known that was the mission we were on I would have passed. I looked back and could see the dog barking and running after us. I had never seen that dog before but I was choking up thinking about how scared it must have felt. My uncle mumbled something and the other passengers laughed. We spent the day running errands and visiting relatives and when we returned to my great grandmother’s the stray was running around the yard acting as if it was supposed to be there. I laughed and raised my little arms in victory. After hearing how the dog had made it back in one piece a kind neighbor asked if he could have it. I should probably mention that my great grandmother lived in Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico and that I was around 7 years old. I wanted that dog to tell me everything it had been through.
I always noticed the packs of stray dogs wandering those streets at night. I also began to notice stray cars sitting on bricks and stray furniture on the side of the road. Sometimes I would spot a stray person in one of those cars or on some of that furniture surrounded by stray dogs. I would wonder if they were all told to get out of a car at some point in their lives.
These memories often showed up in my earliest attempts at writing. Some of the strays would show up in the middle of a story and then disappear because that is what strays do. I had a nice collection of notebooks and maybe even a floppy disc or two with the beginnings, middles and endings to more than a few stories. I only finished what was required for school and then one day I opened the car door and told them to get out. I convinced myself writing was not for me and I got rid of everything. Stray stories began to show up on my doorsteps. You really can’t get rid of them. I pulled out notebooks that people had given me as gifts hoping that one day I would hand it back full of stories. Those notebooks found homes on nightstands, desks and even one under my couch that my kids use to leave me notes and drawings. I hoped that my strays would see the blank pages as a place to come home to. Now I spend the rare quiet moments at home tracking down my stray thoughts and stories. The streets of my imagination are full of handmade LOST STORY signs. Hopefully they all come home like that wonder mutt in Tijuana did years ago.