Going east on West Esplanade, just within reach of the 17th St. canal's high concrete wall, I looked south onto Lake Ave. to see a healthy-looking, fluffy black dog meandering down the street. He was wandering in the truest sense of the word (can dogs be struck with wanderlust?) with a sense that he was taught to always have direction -- to be a dog for goodness sake (and dogs don't ask for directions) -- and yet he was desperately searching for his warm, food-filled home. He looked well-kempt, with a sleek, full coat and a gait marked by puppy training classes. Should I stop and get out of my car? It's not like my neighborhood is bad; I could safely check the dog for tags in the middle of the darkened street. An image of my mom's concerned face flitted across my mind's eye - she volunteers once a week at the humane society and has a soft spot for these sorts of things - what would she say if she knew I drove by a lost dog without doing something? What horrors are the dog's forlorn owners imagining right now? What would I have thought, how many tears would I have cried, if I had ever lost my yellow lab Sandi? How grateful would I have been to the kind, thoughful girl who had taken the chance to greet my perennially cheerful pup and call the telephone number on her collar's tag?

But instead, I'm standing at my living room's counter top, typing this. Wondering. Regretting. Pondering my own anthropomorhpism of the dog's situation: if I won't even stop my car to help this creature bred by humans for mankind's selfish enjoyment, what does that say for humanity's propensity to help each other? Ignoring my tendency to sweeping generalization, what does that say about my own compassion, my own willingness to reach out to someone else when I see them wandering, lost, on life's figurative road? In my guilt, I'm still not moving any closer to the door.

(I'm sorry!)