and he said his name was GINKGO

[` EMBERS]

Under the cover of a very dapper looking maple, was whereupon I met the one known as Ginkgo. He perched neatly on roots that fanned out in an awry circle about him, each foot of the tree anchored effortlessly into a sunny moss-bed. There he told me of his name with the ripe words of an intellectual, and of the entirety of himself upon my asking. A soft voice, one seemingly simplistic, and yet never condescending. “Ginkgo,” He said to me, the slight smudge of a smile on the sides of his lips, each syllable crafted with precise annunciation. “Gink -oh,” He never said too much, only what I asked. Though he never justified, I could see in his face the immediate garb of a sort of Borzoi. His line, however, seemed rather tainted, suggesting a mutt distracting from his otherwise purebred heritage. He told me of the six years of his life, never flitting, always still, diminutive little paws like a clasp on the knobby maple roots, ears, like a cradle, rocking in the feathery wind, but never perking at the rustles and hums enclosing the experience in colorful wrapping.

I almost hesitate to describe Ginkgo, for lack of words. For an hour, we spoke with one another, and in that time, he seemed nothing outside the circle of ordinary, never crossing over that faint boundary into stunning, or implicit. And then, yet, upon dwelling, after vainly attempting to vie for something other than his engrossing words, found myself unable to recall his exact façade. His Borzoi heritage, was rather eminent, I do remember, the only few misleading factors rather subtle. By no means was he heavy, rather on the slender side, by far. Unlike his distilled ancestors, he lacked in the bony, knobbiness of his breed. His body was fuller, less defined, and rounded. Smaller than average, by far, Ginkgo was, beneath the size of a female, but never feminine in his features. He had certain broadness to his face, his eyes set apart widely, but with a tinge of prominence that a Borzoi would otherwise lack. With ears like butterflies, they perched much more erectly on his head, a trivial sag almost missed. A curly pelt seemed much more subdued, dense coat cloaking him in more of a wave. Each hair embellishing the brute could be easily seen in the coiling rays of the sun, wispy and fragmented, sometimes clumping into tufts and other times spreading, poking out like blades of grass. However unruly, he kept his essence of tidiness in his distinct markings; each patch of color never collapsed into an arching crescendo into one another, but cut smoothly like paper. An off-white base glistened paler in the light, conspicuous markings gleaming smoothly. Slate gray fur like thick eyebrows above his eyes crept cleanly up his ears, meeting in a v-shape on the brink of his cranium. A dark saddle upon his back was cracked with scraps of white, and a large, ovular emblem near the base of his tail circumscribed the brute.

He emptied the contents of his heart as we spoke, draining exertion from himself into me like a spout. His exploits meshed into quite a character, one I would pride myself in becoming. With evident flaws, and redeeming characteristics, I found myself rather conflicted as to my desire for Ginkgo’s individuality. Terribly quiet, I found out upon our meeting, he preferred to substitute glances and understated nods in place of words. His voice reflected his mood, however, which conveniently tended to be quite pacified. Though his hushed voice was rather misleading as I made the assumption he was shy; he could speak words so passionate, so meaningful to a complete stranger without haste, or stammering. And yet all his zealous opinions could only be drawn out by my curiosity, it seemed, as he never spoke of his thoughts or of his experiences unless asked. When the tide turned, and my ramblings filled our ears, I found myself craving for his reflection, wistfully yearning that he would ask me questions, and yet, he never pried. Unable to tell whether this compensated for his flaws, or added to them, I continued to find that his gentle nature was not always so apparent. Rarely aggressive, he explained to me, but could flare up like gasoline in a fireplace when need be. He went on to say that this had only occurred several times in his years, and his usual disposition was so utterly gentle and serene, it at first appeared rather blunt. Rather, I learned Ginkgo to be quite sweet, it was simply touching instead. Very compassionate, but never to the point where he seemed to piteous. And though he was very clear headed, he seemed to rue all too much, like those wretched dreamers who have nothing better to do than dredge up all those insignificant mites crawling between the empty spaces in life. Ginkgo seemed so terribly inclined to believe each word that escaped me, and every exaggeration and white lie seemed to miss him from time to time. He had no desire to disbelieve me, or, for that matter, anyone who had the time to speak to him. Yet, still, to the physical world, he had such a keen sense, and a sweeping gaze that encompassed everything. The way he took in the sum of the world almost gave me the impression that I had missed something significant, but the compelling thrum of his voice left me with a surplus of ease.

Every stray is an individual, with our own separate lives and stories; and yet all of our tales can be combined to comprise a single, collective community. And though I have heard a hefty enclave of stories, Ginkgo’s reminded me mostly of someone who is an intriguing character, without the need of having terribly epic adventures, or a heart-breaking love life, or a sorrowful history of unspeakable woes. The beginning for him came in mid-summer to a young mother birthing her first litter. The father, a reputed pure-bred in a nearby rural home, had never really known the female, the two simply happened upon one another in their wanderings. However, Ginkgo’s mother was much too young to handle the stress of the pup’s and upon the day of birthing, she struggled, unaccompanied, to push her puppies from the womb. Ginkgo, the first, was able to pass without struggle, but the second, a girl, Magnolia, struggled to beguile her way into life. By the time she was birthed, oxygen deprivation had starved the female of the life of an average pup. The third of the litter, another girl called Maple, was born cold. The inexperienced mother raised her pups with determination, her effort apparent. She handled Ginkgo well, and he grew to be the reasonable brute he is today, however, Magnolia would always be incapacitated and could never live on her own; she could neither speak, nor walk, and her eyes had a glazing suggesting blindness, too. Ginkgo learned to care for his sister without complaint, and he forged a deep bond with the sister who barely comprehended his existence. His mother was reliant upon him to feed and care for the both of them. As he reached the age of four, his mother met a concerned brute, and though they never had a litter together, stayed with the family to help care for the debilitated Magnolia. The two adults urged Ginkgo to go out and start a life of his own, assuring him that they would be able to manage. Reluctant but moved by his small family, Ginkgo agreed to fashion himself a different life, but never failed to return whenever needed. In the past two years, he has traveled about the small portion of the world he’s known, never straying too far from the home where his family lingers. Traveling like a vagabond, Ginkgo has lived six years, but his life only really begins here.