From my kitchen, I have a view of the downstairs wet market and the building across the street. People here keep their windows and doors open at all hours so of course my nosey, Bahamian self is going to look see what’s going on.
They fly to her balcony every morning and evening because she feeds them. And they’re not just eating scraps. She’s got fruit, bread, meats… the works for them. She believes in reincarnation so she thinks that these are her passed loved ones in their new form and that it is her kharmic duty to feed them. They flock to her in devout obedience and line up patiently as they wait for their turn.
He sits high and looks low at the street dogs, curious about their street life but has never wanted for anything his canine heart desires…except to experience life beyond the building. He has a female companion who occasionally joins him on the balcony but she much rather the company of the humans inside. I’ve also had the pleasure of seeing them hump.
One of many that would blend in with any Bahamian potcake. He knows the locals will feed him so the hard knock life isn’t so bad. Until nighttime when the turf wars begin. Each corner is run by a different dog empire and crossing into their territory could mean a fight to submission. Or a chance at new garbage.
The baby that cries every night for a solid 20 minutes it seems. I dunno. I could be exaggerating but it feels like every night she be at. I dunno what the baby wants. I saw her diaper get changed, given a fresh bottle, and she was being held yet she still cried. Babies. 🤷🏿♀️
I know, I’m such a low key creeper. It’s okay though. It’s my resolve for all the times past and times to come that people stop and stare, or whisper to their people about me like I’m not standing right there.