I bundled up before leaving my condo on a frigid night to take Gus for his last run. Two-tone puffy jacket. Sleek ski hat. New gloves. Thick cords. I felt stylishly protected. Once out the door, Gus bolted down the ramp by the side of our building on Jackson Street in Pioneer Square to greet a fashionable young couple loitering on the sidewalk. Gus always prefers human interaction over a straight-up stroll.

When I joined the group and attached leash to collar, I noticed a box jammed with dry goods on the ground. I guessed they were bound for the homeless shelter down the street. “Good for them,” I thought. “The mission needs all the help they can get.” Then one woman asked if I wanted a bag of Kettle Corn. A bit odd, but okay. I’m not one to judge. Mostly. I took the gesture at face value. They had Kettle Corn. I like Kettle Corn. A simple enough exchange. Later, I wondered. Should I have asked them if they thought I was homeless? Should I have leaned into a conversation about perception? Possibly. Probably. But I was too distracted and cold to engage in consciousness raising, if that’s what was needed.

And so what if they thought I was living in a shelter! Go ahead. Color me homeless.

Yes, it could have been a teachable moment where I cited statistics on the number of disabled people who are unemployed and/or homeless. Or I could have trotted out my privileged background and listed my advanced degrees. The former argument comes off as a bit preachy, and the latter depends, really, on separation. No, no, no. I am not one of them, and here’s the proof of that distinction. What a lousy, superficial lesson that would make. How much time is wasted on similar vacuous explanations? I’m not that kind of person; I’m this kind. Valuable to society. Worthy of respect. Certainly not in need of Kettle Corn given gratis. But who has the yardstick that easily determines true value and worth and need? Not I.

As a wheelchair-user, I affiliate with misunderstood, maligned, and marginalized groups. So I experience a strong sense of kinship with the homeless folks I see on my daily rounds. Gus and I know and support the vendors who sell Real Change, a publication that challenges most notions about who lives on the streets and why and how. We connect. Early. Often. Honestly. It’s not charity. It’s community. These are the people in my neighborhood.

If you’re in a similar quandary about affiliation and assumptions, why not let Gus be your guide? Apart from little kids who frighten him and big skateboarders who annoy him, he is an equal opportunity neighbor. (And we’re working on the kids and skater issues.) If someone wants to commune with him, he’s game. No questions asked. No pedigree required. Just a ready smile, a kind word, and some loving touch. Oh, and treats. Treats are good, too.