There's a quiet little park near my house with a colorful plastic playground, a couple of rusty grills cemented into the ground, a little brick building with toilets and some swings, slides, walking paths and benches. And now, apparently, a small village of homeless people. These folks are new to the neighborhood. Tonight there were three men and two women and they were just starting to prepare a meal. They had four cans of minced clams, a loaf of wheat bread, two boxes of Triscuits, a gallon of what looked like apple juice and a bag of charcoal. One of the guys went off into the trees and came out peeling leaves off some twigs. One of the blood-shot eyed women smiled at me, only after I smiled first, and the sun ricocheted off her gold tooth. 

I imagine that all the people that are in the park at that instant will live together for, well, a while. Like a deserted island. I look around and try to pick out the leader and vote internally that it will be me. I'll decide what to do with those clams. I'll pick where everyone sleeps and how the park will be run. 

A young girl who had already been too forward with my dog was climbing on the picnic table the homeless had claimed as theirs. The girl's father just watched, he seemed unconcerned. All of the sudden I was surrounded by little kids - an Asian one, an Indian one, a Slavic one. They were all poking at my dog, all speaking different languages. I remembered that sign on I-5, heading to Portland, that screamed out political messages posted by the landowner. "This Is America --Speak It," it read once. I kept saying, "gentle, gentle," as they inspected the dog. The little Indian boy said, as he reached under the dog's belly and touched his little, furry penis, "What's that? His spelunckle?" I laughed and told him he, "wouldn't want anyone touching his spelunckle, would he?" 

As we're leaving the park I meet this guy who has a black Cocker Spaniel that's missing half its hair. Unprovoked, the guy tells me the whole dog's story. He starts with its lineage, it dates back to the Depression. I tune the guy out but when I tune back in he says, "So that's how he got this Vitamin E deficiency." I'm lost. The dog is so ugly I can't even look at him. He looks like a giant, dry slug with splotches of flaky fur. The dog takes a dump and I say, "um, your dog, it's, um, going." They guy nods "yeah," does nothing, and keeps yapping about how the dog jumps into the bath with him for relief from all the itching. I'm about to lose what little lunch I had.