Do Writers Have Friends

Do Writers Have Friends?
As I walked through the gates of Aire fresco campamento; I carried all my worldly possession in one thirty-two year old olive green seabag.   
I didn’t know what to expect when Maria invited me to spend a long weekend at her open air camp for rescued dogs.  I had lived on the mean barren streets of
Jacksonville for almost two years. All I wanted was a  few nights of hot showers and warm dry sheets.
Now two weeks later -
I squatted like a catcher; waiting to greet the big American Bulldog.  Vida
jumped on me; knocking me to the ground.  I covered my head and face as the
dog began to muzzle and lick me all over.  I screamed and laughed aloud when Vida’s cold wet nose found the nape of my neck.  I understood the feeling of safety and being loved again.  The feeling of being a part of something. That feeling alive feeling again .
Maria laughed.  “Your need to have a solid base when you face Vida.  She’ll knock you down.”
I kissed Vida squarely on her nose.  “Tell me about it.”