One memory that will always epitomize my new life in the big city: the old man who didn’t bother to pick up his dog’s turds. It wasn’t something I’d ever thought about before because where I come from, there’s enough nature around to absorb the excreta of every living thing.

But sidewalks don’t work that way. You don’t exactly have to be a dog owner to wrap your head around the concept.

I’m not even on the lookout for a project — just drinking coffee and staring into space when he appears, right in front of my window, dragging a curly-haired mutt with yellow teeth and enough fur to obstruct his vision. The dog does his business, and then off they go, beast and master, leaving little balls of shit to dry right next to the back wheel of Gus’s bike.

May as well just paint a target on his forehead.

I follow this pair around for two weeks. Twice a day they leave the big brown building they live in, three blocks down. A co-op or social housing, maybe. Hard to tell who exactly qualified for a spot: there are old people, obese people in wheelchairs, older women whose breasts sag down to their stomachs, all greeting each other in a hail of obscenity as they water their geraniums. No kids though. It’s a brown ten-storey building with tiny windows, cluttered balconies, and a rotating collection of trash and broken crap that the garbage collectors could never quite get to the bottom of.

Our man lives in apartment 416. He has dubious hygiene, lots of free time, and a belaboured gait I first ascribe to athlete’s foot and later decide must be rheumatism or an arthritic hip. While I’m at it, I diagnose early-stage emphysema and a lung tumour. No one can cough quite that way without a severe health problem. It’s a scraping, greasy cough that turns my stomach, and his as well. I almost regret deciding on this zombie since now I’m stuck breathing in his vapour trail. Every new smoke he lights up triggers a fresh coughing fit that lasts several minutes, during which he repeatedly hacks up globs of phlegm from the inner reaches of his throat.

The man looks fairly old, but there’s no easy way to determine his exact age. I’ve read that smoking constricts the blood vessels in the face, killing them at the surface. It deprives the outer layers of the epidermis of oxygen and essential nutrients, and premature aging sets in. He’s a lovely specimen, with a grey face and hollowed-out cheeks. He shifts his dentures left to right when he finally stops coughing.

His sleeves and fingers are turning yellow, just like his dog’s coat. Poor animal. He’ll end up in the gas chamber of some shelter once his master’s gone. It’ll be a matter of months.