I was walking home along Dunsmuir Avenue and I stopped to rest, as I always do, and sat on the same wall in the same afternoon shade, the sun behind me flooding the street and the houses on the other side.

Someone walked by over there. I waved. He waved. He looked like someone I had spoken to before when I had said, “Hello.”

A car passed by with the passenger window rolled down and a dog was sticking its head out.

Dogs like to stick their head out the window and feel the air on their face, nosing through the passing breeze. Especially on the freeway. Their owners know that, and leave the window open.

Dogs are simple creatures and their pleasures are very physical. When they face into the wind, their fur becomes alive.

Then an open pickup truck came down the avenue from the left and passed in front of me.

A dog was standing in the back, looking toward the other side of the street. His back feet were planted firmly out of sight, but his front feet were braced on the edge and he rose to his full German Shepherd height.

He was surveying his domain. He looked over the landscape, and the air in passing caressed and ruffled his entire body.

I read his mind.

“Mine. Mine. The street I run down toward the railroad track and the river. And these houses I run by or stop to sniff. This is my world. I am dog.”

I tried to imagine what it would be like to be a dog. The pure pleasure of the moment. The wind in my face.

Then my uncontrolled thoughts switched to the other possibilities of a dog’s life, and I decided to remain human.

So I settled for admiration of the dog riding in the truck, stood up, and walked the rest of the way home.