A scruffy, old man in ball cap and overalls, clutching a copy of Mark Twain’s “Roughing It,” stops by for coffee. A dog follows him unleashed, one that may or may not be his. As he ducks in for brew, she waits on alert in the cool, humid air outside. Loyal.

She has collie features, but is more accurately deemed a mutt: two-toned long fur, white and ruddy brown.

A small baking pan is brought with ice water. She drinks guiltily, then settles in. He cracks the tattered paperback, lights a cigarette. His free hand absentmindedly scratches the dog’s head, her tongue dangling in ecstasy.

After a while, the man pauses, wipes the sweat from his brow, and the dog jumps to attention. “Stay, baby” he softly requests.

Her name is Pocket.