“I will never give money to a beggar.” Sound familiar? Those are words I have lived by for years. I will buy food, medication, pay for a shower, smile, hug—but I will not give money. Schluss!
This morning, I was walking down a street in Montreal and saw a young guy and girl with two dogs sitting on the pavement in front of a large store. I particularly noticed them because they were sitting in the snow and I wondered if they weren’t cold—there were other places to sit. I passed them, did my necessary food shopping and crossed the street to walk on the sunny side.
A few blocks down, there was the young guy again, sitting in the sun on his own with the two dogs. As I passed, he said, “Do you have some spare change?” I smiled, said “no” and continued walking. Something said to me, “Go back.” I thought, “What now? What on earth for this time? What am I going to say? What am I going to do? Que pasa?” But I have learned not to question that little voice—just do it, it’s easier.
I turned around, looking for “the open door”—my entrance into this new situation. Money, I was not going to give, so there had to be something else. I looked at the guy, then the two dogs. They were well fed compared to him, calm and happy, but they had mangy spots on them. “What are these marks on the dogs?” I asked, patting them, completely unconcerned about whatever it was they have. I have this innate trust that if I am supposed to follow guidance, I do it the way I know best and “guidance” is going to have to keep me from catching anything. It always has.
“It is some disease the dogs pick up from the floor of the shelter,” the young man said. “I have taken them away so it can clear up—it will.”
“But where do you live,” I asked—typical nosey journalist. “On the streets when the weather is OK, or in shelters, or park benches; sometimes at a friend’s place.”
And the “open door” slammed ajar and invisible feet booted me through it. The dogs were jumping up against me and I patted them unaware.
His name is Karl, he is 26 and he has been living on the streets for eight years as “It is better living here than being beaten every day by an alcoholic father.” He has travelled all over Canada, moving with the weather. He is as thin as a rail, teeth reasonably clean, a kind gentle face and in response to my question regarding how he eats he said, “From the money people give me. I don’t care about me, as long as I can buy dog food, everything is OK.”
Passersby were stopping to watch this extremely odd conversation between a beggar and what appeared to be a “normal” woman, but they were more interested in the state of the dogs. My head was screaming, “The dogs are healthy, people, except for some skin abrasions. Look at this man, look at him!”
And then I looked at this man and saw a lesson. He manages to live because what he cares about is not himself, it’s the dogs—others—and because of his caring for these two critters, others care for him. It doesn’t matter why others give, it only matters that they give. So they are giving to feed the dogs—that is fine, he will eat too. It may be that he eats dog food, but he will eat and continue his care for others.
He is a lesson—a lesson that most of us simply do not see. It is in caring for others that we are cared for. It is when we care that others are forced to care—and compassion, whether it be for the beggar or the dogs, pauses people to take notice and then to take action. We can create a caring continuum—but someone has to start it.
I didn’t have my camera with me and charged home to get it. I returned almost immediately, but he was gone. I walked up and down the streets for about two hours, but he was nowhere to be seen. And yes, I gave him money.
