The food by itself is good. But when delivered with hope it’s even better. The amount is less important. Because more and more is rarely the solution. Whether we help someone one time or 100 times, the end goal is the same. We’re here. But sometimes it’s not about the food at all. It’s only about the hope. We’re here for that too.

The young boy on the street who would hate for anyone to refer to him as a young boy because he pushed his chest out far as he could and wore too many layers of jackets to appear as big and brave as he could because young boys don’t fare well on the streets and he would not be one of those young boys.

This young boy, this confused, fragile, hurt and hopeful young boy who so desperately wanted to be a man asked if we could help him get a dog so he would have someone to take care of, someone that would look up to him. I told him yes we could, because that is what he needed to hear at that moment in time.

He needed hope.

What kind of dog did he want? A small one. Why? Because that’s the kind of dog they had at home. What would he name the dog? He was not sure. Did he want a boy or a girl dog? A girl. Why? Because girls treated him nicer. What color dog did he want? It didn’t matter. Why not? Because color wasn’t important.

I wrote these things down on a list so he knew I would not miss anything. He watched me to make sure I got all of the details right. Because he knew what he wanted and he was the one giving the orders.

And under the streetlight we talked about this dog I would deliver to him. When would he like it? He wasn’t sure. Tomorrow? The day after that? Next week or month? Still not sure. How about if I gave him my phone number so he could call when he was ready?

Yes, he said, that would be best.

But while we’re still there under the streetlight, how about if we talk for a few minutes about what it would mean to have someone to care for, to have someone that would look up to him. Let’s talk about how he would care for the dog I would bring him.

The more he spoke the more excited he became. His dull eyes started to sparkle when I talked about the young homeless man we used to help who had built a doghouse in a wagon so his dog would always be comfortable even when he was tired. Could we do that for him too? Yes, we could.

And could we get a “fierce” looking collar for the dog, because he thought it would be fun for his little dog that he did not yet have to wear a fierce collar that he did not have. Yes, we could.

We wrote it all down, every single word. He checked to make sure I had it right. Then I handed him the tablet and asked him to keep writing. And I told him I’d meet him the next day in the same spot to talk more about the dog that I would bring him whenever he was ready.

And the next day at about the same time underneath that same welcoming streetlight we looked at his tablet of writing. And the words he wrote were not only about his dog-to-be, but some of them were written to his dog. Telling her how much he would love her and always be there for her. And then his words travelled beyond his dog and became the poetry of his heart.

He had begun to write about several things that had hurt him. Some of them had happened long ago, he said. Yet he was so young. And in so many ways, they had really happened only yesterday.

When I got ready to leave he wanted to know if I wanted the tablet back with all of the notes so I would remember what kind of dog to bring him. I said yes, thank you. But I also suggested he might want to keep it and keep writing things down about his dog so he would not forget.

I told him he’d need to decide on what kind of food bowl to use. And he would also need to pick out a water bowl too. And what about leashes? What would the leash look like and would it match the collar? And I told him he’d for sure want a harness and I could get him one with little tattoos all over it. He said he’d better keep the tablet.

And as I left he stood there with a small backpack I brought along too, filled with all of the things he’d need for more nights on the street, the things I knew he did not have. Even though they might never get used because he would be going home soon.

He was hurt. He was angry. He needed to go home. He wanted to go home. And he said he knew his parents would be looking for him. And the night before, the first night I saw him, was his first night on the street.

He had my card and phone number so he knew he could reach me anytime. I also gave him the names and numbers for several great groups that would be there to welcome him and help him figure out what he wanted to do. Luckily he told me he knew them already. Because Portland has lots of great groups like that. And one of them was just a few doors away, open then and ready to help.

But inside that backpack were a few other things too. Some special ink pens that felt good to hold because I’ve got a good friend that always talks about his favorite pens. Some pencils too, because sometimes the written word sounds better when it is lead on paper. A small pocket-sized pencil sharpener.

An eraser. Because we all need an eraser to fix our mistakes.

And a writing journal. With a thick cover and strong paper that would stand up to strong words.

And I wrote something inside that journal for him too. Just a few words on a random page somewhere near the middle. I thought he’d find them when he needed them.

The Pongo Fund is a Pet Food Bank. There was no dog food that day. But food of a different sort. To nourish in a different way.

And this is why we Pongo.

Sit. Stay. Eat. Live. thepongofund.org

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