Kennel Nine

On my first Saturday at the city shelter in Newark, Bilal handed me a leash and pointed at kennel nine.

“Rocco,” he said. “Big guy. Take him out to the yard.”

Rocco was in the back corner, and he stayed there. I called his name. I patted my leg. I made the little noise people make at dogs, for about five minutes. He watched me and didn't move. Then Bilal opened the door, said one word, and Rocco walked out with him.

On Sunday I brought chicken. I put one piece near the door, then a second piece, then a third. Rocco ate all three and went back to his corner.

Bilal laughed. “He's not stupid,” he said.

“So what do I do?”

“Stop asking him. Every dog here is an individual, and Rocco doesn't like a person standing over him and looking at him. You're big and you're new.”

The next Saturday I opened the door of kennel nine, sat down on the floor with my back to the corner, and waited. I didn't call him. I didn't look. I hoped, which is not the same as looking.

After a long minute something heavy leaned against my shoulder.

“There he is,” Bilal said from the doorway. “Yard's free. Take him out.”