HOMELESS DOGS

There are over five hundred homeless people barely existing in one of the oldest beach communities in California. Their numbers surge along with the tourism industry, and you can't take a stroll downtown, along the bike path, or by the shore without encountering the outstretched hand, cup full of pennies, and a weather-worn backpack with a lifetime of dirt and grime worn into the fabric and shredding seams. Here, along the California coastline, you would be hard pressed to go any distance without seeing at least a handful of these hobos. The mild weather, the laid-back attitude of the year-round residents, and the free lunches that the local charities seem so eager to prepare and handout - thus appeasing their filthy-rich guilt and fulfilling their Christian duty to feed the hungry - all of these events conspire to draw the nomads to Monterey like a thirsty camel to an oasis. They have become woven into the tapestry of our neighborhood and are no longer come as a shock to the fastidious systems of the uber rich you find on the Peninsula. What never ceases to amaze me though, are the dogs. "Homeless Dogs" I call them. A steady diet of burritos, hotdogs, marshmallows, and, I suspect, the ocassional seagull has left these dogs looking nothing like what you would expect. They are big. With big, studded collars, a rope for a leash, and that Carmel Clint Eastwood look in their eye that says, "go ahead, make my day..." It seems like there are as many homeless dogs as there are homeless people. Some of these dogs have been trained to beg. I found one dog sitting on a corner, bandanna around his neck - along with a sign - and a cup in front of him. The sign said, "I've been a good boy, don't make me beg..." The ravaged plastic Transformers cup actually had about twenty bucks tucked down in it. Across the street, his owner played a guitar and had his own cup sitting on the blanket in front of him. He had about forty five cents in his cup. The dog was clearly doing a much better job. I've spoken to a couple of the girls who sit in the doorways bumming cigarettes and money. "Why the dog?" I ask. Keeps 'em safe they tell me. Apparently, when you're sleeping out under the stars, you are game for anyone wanting to toss you for your coins, your shoes, and any thing else you might have. Having a dog helps. They all have a story about a girl or a guy who got stabbed and thrown in the ravine. "Shoulda had a dog..." they all say. A couple of times I've been compelled to take a sign-holder into the local fast food joint and buy them a meal. I am always at a loss as to whether or not I am expected to buy a burger for the dog too.