Injun

I’d be taking a shower and he’d come and lie down on the bathroom floor and wait for me.

I’d go to bed, and he’d come and curl up against the wall in the bedroom.

I’d get the leashes, and he’d become a Mexican jumping bean — bobbing up and down.

I’d take him off leash, and he’d go into his long-strided trot, putting distance between us. But, heaven forbid, I got out of sight — then he’d turn around and run back to me. Only to turn around again, get that trot in motion and move on.

When I’d come home from being out, he’d gallop down the stairs, bobbing up and down in front of me — greeting me.

He’d lay down, over the cooler vent, and cross his two front paws.

He never asked for affection like the other greyhounds. Rather he’d just sit and look at me, and if I stopped petting him, he’d pick up his head and give me the look.

I could take him anywhere, the fireworks, the demolition derby, nothing bothered him.

He never learned to jump in the car. He’d place his two front paws on the seat, and then turn to look at me — saying OK, lift my 90-pound ass in now.

He was the best-looking black guy around.

He was the favorite of all the kids. He’d sashay right up to them — saying HI there, you came to visit me? Great!

Every morning, as he’d stretch his long body, he’d fart.

The photographer in town adored him.

He was the coolest. And I was his girl.