I asked a banjo playing squatter a question the other night. He looked at me in my unsoiled navy blue sneakers and my fancy hoody and my little flowered wristlet sewn from recycled plastics, and when he opened up his mouth to speak revealed a mouthful of overly large, rotting teeth. His answer to my question was no although he said it in booming, thoughtful words. Then he broke into song, nearly drowned out by the dreadlocked accordian player. You could see his teeth real good when he sang, because he sang loud like he was shouting. I like that kind of singing.

His songs made me think about the social relevance of spending one’s time on obsessive hobbies like dog agility and zumba. Both which are really, really hard to do in skin tight pegged black jeans tucked into dumpster salvaged work boots.

I thought about it for a while while I walked out to my nice clean Jetta stationwagon and drove home and went to sleep on my high thread count flannel sheets. Beats hopping a rail car and sleeping in a tree.

I was loading up the dogs into the wagon the next day after a run at the whale skeletons. I open up the door and they all jump into their boxes. Cages. Crates. Whatever. A lady had some little chihuahuas and had her silver sports car parked by me. She stopped and looked and said, “They all have to sit in cages?”

I’m all, “Yep,” and clicked someone’s door shut.

She stood there with her mouth open. “That’s amazing. Really amazing.” Looked in my car and looked at me. Shook her head and loaded her dogs up on the passenger seat of her shiny ride. She was little and wore a matching track suit. I would have worn it. Even though I’m someone that puts dogs in boxes.