The dog would follow always. She lay there, next to the bags of trash. He was looking through them, for something, she could never tell. The dog never really cared, either. Every day she patiently waited.

The noise was regular, too. The glances, constant. Some tourist would always notice the New York City bum and his dog. She used to prick her ears at every look they received from the passerby. Now her eyes just followed them, the rest of her still. Once and a while her undocked tail would keep beat with the hum of the city.

She was a tough-looking dog. Pit bull mix. The crowds would always make a small gap around where she rested on the sidewalk. Her fur was pearly white and glossy. Clean and healthy, unlike the street dogs of New York. Technically, she was a street dog of New York. But she was loved, and cared for, only he was a street person. So, technically she was a street dog.

But the pound could not legally take him.

He may have to dig through trash to keep himself fed and clothed- and even then, barely- but his knapsack was always full of dog kibble. She never was very hungry, although she wasn’t pampered.

A little rat dog with three legs rolled by on a doggy wheel contraption. He was dragged behind a stiletto-wearing woman holding the rhinestone leash.

The pit bull had no leash, but she would never leave him.