Cappuccino
Elvis barked and pleaded for me to open the front door and let him outside. His large black body danced in place while his eyes stared deep into mine with a look of panicked desperation, screaming, “Dear God, let me out, or else I’m going to paint your living room wall in excrement.” He’s a good dog.
I immediately jumped off the couch and set down my coffee to help my best friend. I secured his leash to his collar, grabbed a poo bag, and seemingly phased through the front door.
Elvis pulled to the first lamp post he could find and relieved himself of about a pint of bright yellow urine. But he wasn’t done. He lunged forward, all 90 lb. of him pulling me towards a spot of earth. He doesn’t like pooping on the pavement. He’s a classy guy.
Elvis is typically insufferably particular when choosing the proper ground to squat over. A broken twig here or oddly shaped leaf there can send him forever looking for more adequate terrain. But today, Elvis set his prejudice aside for the first spot of earth he could find. Pouncing on a barren patch of mulch he assumed the position and spewed a cappuccino-like stream of liquid from his anus, desecrating the nearby area and all the while, maintaining perfect eye contact with me to ensure I was keeping an eye out of any danger while he was in such a vulnerable state.
I do need to mention Elvis and I live in West Oakland. Although rapidly gentrifying with overpriced lofts and hipster coffee shops, the neighborhood is still littered with potholes, hypodermic needles, and vagrants that range from the neglected and mentally ill to downright criminals. On this particular, sunny, late West Oakland morning, while watching Elvis’s back, I noticed at what first glance to be a car-jacking, happening just across the street from where Elvis had switched from making cappuccino to a nice drip coffee. Hipsters do love their drip coffee.
A decrepit man was leaning over and sticking a crude metal device into the door of a luxury, German SUV. I was confused by the crouching since he was, in fact, on the driver’s side which faced the street allowing any passerby to plainly see. While checking over his shoulder he noticed me looking right back at him while standing next to Elvis who had apparently become a barista.
Few things unnerve a person the way a homeless can when they look you in the eye. As if they can transmit a little bit of their crazy into you if they stare long enough. Before I could turn away and avoid eye contact, he stopped fidgeting with the car door, faced me, and shouted, “HEY!”
I immediately put my head down, acting as if I hadn’t noticed his felony, but he continued to stare at Elvis and yelled, “WHAT KIND OF DOG IS THAT!?”
“Umm…” I muttered, “A giant schnauzer.”
“A. GIANT. SCHNAUZER!” He copied.
“Yea.” I confirmed. Elvis stood there wrapping up his shift.
“THAT’S A BEAUTIFUL DOG!”
“Thank you.”
He turned back towards the car door with his device and went about his merry high-jacking way.
Now, I guess I can’t be absolutely certain it wasn’t his car, but he was dressed in clothing that didn’t adhere to a single sartorial style and it appeared to be run over by heavy construction equipment. He also had that sun-kissed homeless skin. You know what I’m talking about?
Now, although a tad hostile when asking Elvis’s breed, he was surprisingly well-mannered and complimentary. For a second, I worried for him: Stop talking to me and get back to that car stealing. One of these days, you’re going to get pinched because you took too long asking a stranger what kind of dog he’s walking. It doesn’t matter if it’s a Pyrenees. Get the car and go!
Elvis and I walked back to our apartment and I debated if I should call the police. I decided against it, but it wasn’t out of throwing that dog enthusiast a bone, it was because Oakland PD was so unreliable. I was saddened by the casualness of the crime. Crime was supposed to be surgical. I want to see Bond Villains carefully infiltrating a military base with encrypted codes and sleek gadgetry, but all I get is an amateur crackhead brazenly jacking a car in broad daylight with no real concern of getting caught. It was lazy. I pictured him smashing a window of a car on Broadway asking another passerby where she bought her scarf:
“Zurich.” The imaginary woman replied.
“ZURICH! THAT’S IN SWITZERLAND, CORRECT?”
“Yes, that is correct” She would mutter.
“WELL, THAT’S A BEAUTIFUL SCARF!”
He would then hum a joyful tune while he plundered the vehicle and smashed the remaining windows with a crowbar. Cops sipped their coffee not far.
Elvis and I sluggishly entered the apartment. Myself confused by the condition of the neighborhood, himself fatigued from working a double. We sat down together on the floor. Elvis put his large black head upon my lap and relaxed. He’s a good dog.
