The dog who knew his stop

Written in Batumi, June 2022. Typed up today.

The dog showed up on my third walk along the concrete. Brown, medium-sized, one ear that folded wrong. He fell into step beside me without looking up.

This was Batumi in June. The promenade ran beside the water and I walked it most evenings because the room I had was airless. I had written about the seafront at night from the other end, before I knew this stretch.

He walked about a metre to my left, between me and the low wall, and kept pace. We went maybe fifteen minutes. Then he stopped.

At a lamp post. The third one past a bench with a broken slat. He sat down beside it and looked at the ground. I kept walking. He did not follow.

Next evening he was there again. Same loose ear. He walked me to that post and sat. I turned and watched. He watched the pavement.

So I tested it. Walked the other direction first, a long loop, came back past the hotel. He was waiting by the wall. Fell in beside me. That post again. Sat down.

Tried once more the evening after. Same thing. He turned back at that post every time. I never worked out why. Maybe someone fed him there. Maybe his stretch simply ended and he knew it.

A man on the bench with the broken slat looked at us one evening and said something in Georgian. He pointed at the dog and shrugged. I shrugged back. He laughed.

I forgot to photograph him. Kept meaning to.

I’ll tell you the rest if I remember it.