The Street Dog Who Chose Our Lane

Nala was never really anyone's dog. For the first year I knew her she lived under the stairs of a shophouse off Silom, a Thai Bangkaew with a torn ear and a patient way of watching traffic. The guards fed her rice, the tuk-tuk drivers left water bowls out, and every morning she walked me to the BTS station as if it were part of her job. I used to tell myself I wasn't a dog person.

Then one monsoon week she was limping, and the soi was flooded up to my ankles. I carried her to a clinic a short walk away and sat on a plastic chair for an hour while she was stitched up. That was the moment I stopped pretending. Nothing dramatic happened. I just kept showing up.

Now she has a collar, a name, and a bed by my balcony door. She still checks the street every morning, and the guards still slip her chicken skin. Some evenings I wonder whether she chose me or I chose her. Probably both, and that feels right for a city like this.