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Dirty Hands That Weren’t

Dirty Hands FB 9-27-15Hands that were dirty in a way that wasn’t really dirt. More like the scars of dirt. Stained from days and years before. The kind of dirt that becomes part of the skin no different than the skin.

I was on my rounds in a part of town often overlooked, helping people often invisible. But if you look, you see. They are there.

It was a sunny day but a wet winter is near. Time for an early delivery of sleeping bags, hats, gloves and some super great socks donated by our good friends at Road Runner Sports.

But those hands. I knew the gloves would keep them warm and dry, but they were a sight. And I got a real good look when he extended one of them to shake mine. Because he was of an age when a handshake meant something. We greeted. We spoke.

He said he was ok, but that the items I had should go to someone else that needed them more.

Words he said as he stood there with so little already. I persisted, reminding him that I had more to share with others too. So would he please be so kind as to accept these gifts from me? Yes, he said, yes we would.

The “we” part of his reply included the dog sitting patiently at his feet. Sitting. Standing. Flipping himself upside down for a quick backscratch. Neither was young and they had been together for years. Greeting me was just another part of their day.

After presenting the items I had for him, I presented the items that were for his four-legged friend. And the moment I pulled out the bag of treats this happy dancer dog sat at rapt attention. A sit so flawless that Westminster judges would be proud. He knew that bag was for him.

The man quickly dropped to his knees and carefully opened the treats to gently present one to his friend.

Together they celebrated the moment as one treat seemed to feed them both.

And from that kneeling position he again reached out his darkened hand. One arm extended to shake my hand one last time, his other hand busy giving an excellent and unrushed left-handed belly rub to a dog that he loved.

A man with hands darkened from years of living, busy rubbing the sparkly clean and tender belly of a dog that cared nothing about dirt or stained hands. A dog he kept cleaner than he kept himself.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No,” I said. “It is me that thanks you.”

And this is why we Pongo.

Sit. Stay. Eat. Live. Thank You Always. thepongofund.org

(photo of hands is stock image and not the hands of the person I met)