My Kind of Orphan

Walking back from my late-night yoga class, I noticed this chair sitting complacently at the edge of the curb.

I stopped. Looked him over. And thought, "I really ought to take him home."

But when I grabbed the scruff of his neck, and felt his bubbled, weather-beaten skin, I thought better of it. So I patted his head, wished him well, and carried on without the stray in tow.

No more than a few steps later, I paused, "if not me, then who? I will give him a good home. Clean him up. Possibly transform him from streetside rubbish into an admired piece of furniture art with a few splashes of paint."

So I turned back, scooped him up into my arms, and carried his heavy body (this is no IKEA breed) the good mile back home.

When I arrived at the apartment with my new friend, both of our tails wagging, Kasey greeted us at the door. She feigned a bit of excitement for my newly adopted pet, but told me until he'd been given a proper bath, I had to keep him outside.

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