b'The Streets Know Its Sunday by Ben RiggsA warm puff of air tickles my chin, and a cold, wet nose I open the closet to snatch his leash. Before closing thenudges my right cheek. Drunk with sleep but slowly sober- door, I grab a jacket. These midwestern mornings have car-ing, I open my eyes enough to trace the silhouette of my ried a chill recently as Octobers breeze brings the smell ofblack pup, Lewie, hovering over me. I reach for my watch ash from the previous nights fires. on my nightstand. Squinting like a sailor straining to see I close the front door, and Lewie hurries us down thebeyond the horizon, I see the time. 6:15 a.m.stairs toward the sidewalk. He leads with the confidence of aThe dark bedroom, warm from two humans and a bar- volunteer museum tour guide, making the few turns thatrel-bodied black Labrador sharing a bed, rests motion- take us to the first half of our walk. less until Lewie makes another approach. Hums With downtown Daytons humble skyline at ourand slight whines join his wet nose invading backs, we march uphill. Our walk begins along amy space. With a few pats and pets, I try to stately brick street that now slightly sags into thesubdue him. But his sanguine brown eyes earth after years of tires and chassis. Unlike thefixed on meseem to say, Its either in here top and bottom of the hill where asphalt coversor out there.the brick, the exposed brick reminds anyoneHe comes to me knowing Im a light walking along it that someones hard work restssleeperand his only ticket outside. My wife, under their feet without their realizing. Olderhe quickly learned, embodies her own law of homes on both sides of the road, set back frominertia when she sleeps: a body at rest remains the sidewalk, dwell in various stages of entropy. at resteven when the dog needs to go out.The brick street hosts no activity. TomorrowThis has been our routine since his sec- at this same time, the hiss of buses and the hum ofond week with us. He was three months old cars and the bangthen. At first, I wondered whether wed of front doorsbrought home the only dog that doesnt like will replaceto sleep. But after a few weeks, the wet-nosed todays silence. alarm clock grew familiar to me, along withour morning walks. Two years later, and our morningwalks have taught me that the nearestthing to grabbing time by the lapels isto be up before the sun. Perhaps thatswhy doughnut shops boast cornertables of veteransof war and lifealive with the sounds of aged storiesand slurped coffee. I slip from the bed and find myslippers. The floorboards creak andmoan with age and duty. I tip-toedownstairs, following the blur of fur,and rendezvous with the smell of brew-ing coffee. Walking into the kitchen, I seethe time on the coffee machine: 6:30. I fill asmall travel mug.This morning, though, front doors remain still. Walking toward the closet, I see Lewie looking through Years ago, this street likely saw church ties and Sundaythe window to the right of our front door. His tail snakes dresses and covered casserole dishes. Today, there are no tiesover the floor as he looks for squirrels and birds and leaves nor casserole dishes. But the streets seem to know itsand stray cats. He looks back to me, exasperated, as if hes Sunday, offering their own reverence as the parallel rows ofwaited the past two years for this walk.houses dwell in their own kind of holiness and homeliness. 50 THE NEW BARKER www.TheNewBarker.com'