The Smiling Dog Cafe

The dog stood, shook itself, then began limping purposefully down the street. Without conscious thought, I followed. Part of me knew I should go back inside, knew Emma would wake and ask for me, but my feet moved of their own accord, following this three-legged guide through Brooklyn’s maze of possibilities.

We turned down one street, then another. The dog never looked back, but somehow I knew it was leading me somewhere specific. The buildings grew older, the streets narrower. The smell of the river grew stronger, carrying memories of other waters — the Seine, the Sumida, the Ganges — all the places I’d called home for a season.

The dog disappeared down an alley I’d never noticed before, though I’d walked this neighborhood for years. The brick walls were softened by age, and somewhere nearby I could hear Brazilian jazz playing, the kind my Rio nanny Isabella used to dance to while making breakfast.

The alley opened into a small courtyard, and there it was: a café with warm light spilling from its windows like welcome made visible. The sign above the door read “The Smiling Dog,” and in the window, I saw the Akita’s portrait — the same three-legged warrior who’d led me here, captured in oils with eyes that held all the world’s understanding.

The door stood open. Inside, the scent of coffee mingled with something sweeter — cinnamon maybe, or the cardamom Lakshmi used to sneak into everything she baked. The dog was gone, but somehow its presence lingered, like the echo of a mother’s lullaby.

I stepped inside, letting the warmth wash over me. An elderly woman stood behind the counter, her silver braids caught up in a neat crown, her brown face lined with the kind of wisdom that comes from watching others heal. She smiled as if she’d been expecting me.

“Welcome to the Smiling Dog,” she said. “I’m Betty. And you look like you could use a cup of coffee.”