text: Examining her pruned fingers, callused tips a form of proof that she exists here, she lets a wave push her back up to shore. It’s a gentle nudge, a friendly reminder that all good things must end and that there’s work to be done. With a quiet reluctance, she does as instructed and stands from her seat on the ocean floor, finding the water only up to her knees after that last wave. She knows she’ll be back this evening, but it’s still hard to leave. She wants to live in the water, be one with that kind, but occasionally temperamental, wave. As she steps onto the warm sand, she finds that her towel is now the host to another lonely visitor: the stray, emaciated dog that’s been following her in and around her home the last few days. He barely registers her form, even as her shadow absorbs the light from around him. “Hey there.” The woman says. “You lost?” His ear, standing upright and pointed, pivots toward the sound as she speaks, but he doesn’t respond in kind. As she stands above him, eyeing his forlorn shape, ribs visible beneath a thin layer of coarse fur, he lets his head fall to his paws. She interprets this as his way of saying, Yes. I am lost. But I don’t think I ever belonged. At least, that’s what the state of his body says; that he never had a proper home or those people to come back to after a long day spent scampering around in the village or neighboring jungle. She knows this feeling well. It’s what brought her here. The woman reaches for her towel and he takes this as his cue that his reprieve, from the hot sand and the scorching sun, is over for now. He stands and looks out to the sea, almost as if he’s debating whether the warm, salted bath water will make him feel better or worse than he does right now. She cocks her head and gives him a tender smile before walking away. Once she’s made it about 50 feet up the familiar path to her home, she looks over her shoulder. He’s still standing, pondering what comes next in the drudgery of his existence. She thinks he’s odd, this short-haired, pointy-eared fellow. He’s likely a mutt, as are most of the strays she encounters here. They’re usually overly friendly, not having learned any boundaries as a pup and for the simple fact that the people in the village will always feed them. Especially the tourists and their excited children who can’t seem to fathom a place where dogs roam freely through the streets, dogs who stop by each hut or bodega as though they’re on some sort of shopping spree, a winter holiday of their own. The woman prefers to keep to herself. She grows her own food so that she only needs to visit the village once a month or so to stock up on essentials, wine, and cerveza. Once a year on her birthday, she’ll splurge on a top shelf tequila anejo. Other than that, she’s a recluse. A nomad. Content to engage with as few of her kind as possible. Like him, she never belonged anywhere but here. Anywhere but nowhere. But she senses a kindred spirit. And against her better judgment and without much thought, she whistles to the dog. This time, he turns in a quick, smooth, almost predatory motion; a wolf listening attentively for the presence of his prey. She almost finds herself regretting it, but then he surprises her with a friendly pant, his tongue falling lopsidedly out of his mouth as if to say, Me? Are you really calling to me? Is this truly happening? She nods to him and gives a quick sideways flick of her head, indicating, Yes, you. Let’s go. He gallops goofily toward her on the well-worn path she’s made with her bare feet in the sand over the years that's she's inhabited this place. His movement surprises her. Is this not the same stoic creature she encountered only moments ago? Does her attention really make that much of a difference to him? He stops at her side and sits by her heels, holding up a paw. She snorts at his greeting, finding herself delightfully amused by this scene - shaking her hand with a local mutt who she’s invited over for a visit, a social call. “You are a strange one, aren’t you?” He smiles. Or at least that’s what it looks like to her, a human being who was raised to understand the body language of her peers. Her human peers. But that feels neither here nor there to her because this dog is definitely smiling. There’s no doubt about it. He lets out a soft, breathy bark, Aruufff. The woman escorts him to her tiny home. It was quite literally sold to her as a “tiny home” ten years ago, before everyone and their brother wanted to hop onto the tiny home, nomadic, off-grid bandwagon. It’s a repurposed school bus that she’s painted a deep, forest green to blend in with the jungle in the distance behind her. She would hate to stand out in some offensive color, bright pink or red. She’d rather go unseen, only the salesman who sold her this small plot of land knowing where she resides. It’s better that way. To be alone. She opens the door, making her way up the steps to grab a banana for breakfast before she starts in on harvesting the vegetables and fruits in her garden behind the bus. She wants to get that over with before the unbearable heat of the midday sun sets in. He doesn’t follow, instead assuming that he must wait outside to be invited in. She’s happy to have such a polite guest. In her previous residence in a city a few hours east of here, people were fascinated by her lodgings, always wanting a tour, always wanting to take pictures at the helm, one hand on the steering wheel and another making some sort of hand gesture, a peace sign, “hang loose”, occasionally a middle finger raised and a tongue out, which she found strange, as if her home evoked some kind of punk rock vibe. It doesn’t. It’s simple, handcrafted, and filled with various flora and fauna so that she never has to leave the jungle. “You can come in.” She tells him over her shoulder as she peels her banana. She makes a tsk tsk sound with her tongue to emphasize her point. “Don’t be a stranger.” He enters slowly, his paws quiet on the tan, wooden floorboards she delicately laid with her own two hands. He scans his surroundings with a keen eye, investigating the area to ensure his safety in this bizarre, long, and narrow home. Once he’s walked the length of the bus and poked his snout inside each flowerpot or basket, he decides that it’s acceptable and sits beside her heels once again as she eats her banana. “Would you like one?” She asks him as she begins to peel another, already knowing that the answer will be a resounding yes based on the lack of meat on his bones. She hands it to him, and he takes it gently, accepting this token of their new friendship. “Those actually grow right out there,” she points to a tree outside the window above her kitchen sink. “They’re plentiful and even though you can’t reach them, I can do that for you.” He gobbles the ripe treat, proceeding to lick the spot on the floor where a bit of banana residue slicks the floorboards. His head tilts back up to her with that enigmatic smile of his. Their day continues like this. The woman, going about her duties. The dog, following tentatively behind, waiting for her permission to engage in whatever activity comes next. Gardening; he waits at the fence before she waves him over to help her inspect the cucumbers and chayote, the mangoes and bananas. Handwashing her clothes; he waits a few feet away from the bucket of warm water until she waves him over to watch as she scrubs along an old washboard, educating him on the best ways to remove stains without harsh chemicals. For those pesky cab sav wine stains, I like to let the stain sit with a bit of salt before soaking in hot water. Taking an afternoon nap; he waits below the bed that’s been built on a raised platform at the end of the bus, until she waves him over to join her, settling at the end of the bed as he’s not quite ready to snuggle with her yet. She’s fine with this; she’s not ready to snuggle either. At dinner, he waits on the bed, watching her cook on the tiny camp stove. He will sniff the air every so often, intrigued by the smell of what she’s concocting. It’s a simple meal of rice and beans, the beans fresh from her garden. “You’re going to love this.” She says to him. “I make mine relatively spicy, so if you’d like, I can leave out the spices in your bowl. I’m guessing you’d prefer it plain?” He smiles big, panting loudly from his perch on the bed. They eat dinner outside, she in her Adirondack chair and he on her beach towel that she’s laid out, thinking that she’ll reserve it for him from now on. Everyone should have something that they can call their own. Something that they can point to and say, “That’s mine. Please don’t touch.” She understands this. It’s the way that she feels about her bus, her garden, her pocket of deserted ocean. Afterwards, she uncorks a bottle of sauvignon blanc, craving something crisp and refreshing on this humid evening. When the wine hits the base of her belly, she sighs with relief. She examines her fingers again. No longer pruned but reddened and bruised from the gradual wear and tear of her lifestyle. She’s proud of these hands. Her new companion has a few marks and scabs on his paws, matching hers. Proof that he exists here in this place. That he’s struggled, toiled, begged, and fought. He’s panting at the sky that’s now colored in vibrant oranges, magentas, and reds. His lungs are expanding and contracting in quick, sharp movements. Inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale. He looks at the woman, then at the sea, then back at the woman. An invitation. She stands, setting her glass on the armrest of her chair. “Sure, I could go for a quick swim. Did you know it’s actually my favorite way to end the day?” An airy bark. Yes. I saw how disappointed you were this morning when you had to leave. Let’s go then. He saunters off confidently and for the first time in what feels like ages, she follows. As they dip their toes in the gentle, calm sea, her new friend looks up and she finds herself doing the same. They’ve never really been alone, have they? There’s the sun and moon, reliable as ever. There’s the wind on their faces, beckoning them towards different unknowns. There’s the whisper of insects, the call of birds, the crash of waves. But it’s a welcome change to have someone with whom you can experience this feeling of not being alone. To stare up at the universe, together but separate, changed but still the same. At the end of the day, there’s always a sky filled with stars. And tonight, she knows he sees them too.