April 28, 2007
I find Randy sitting on the step of an Indian clothes store, recently closed, tight against another homeless guy, Charlie, who never smells very good, but always gives Faith a big smile. Randy’s got a blue rectangular pendant on a thong around his neck. He pulls it out of his shirt. Foxy’s ashes, caught in some kind of artificial amber. Randy’s clearly nervous about losing it. “She was a good dog,” I say. Charlie pipes up, “She saved my life.” Foxy liked Charlie. Once, Charlie passed out, Randy reports. And it was Foxy who licked him until he woke up.