Tonight, a pack of dogs is howling at the moon. This neighborhood is teeming with them; every corner you turn, you’ll see a dog standing there. Beautiful, brown and black fur with white spots. Noses that are always wet. Their eyes all look like my brother’s. Some mornings they lay dead on the street.

I once walked home from university. A gentle-looking stray walked with me for a while, and I pitched my voice high when I said hi, and didn’t make eye contact. I tried to send out a message with my body, Hey, I mean no harm! That’s what you’re supposed to do, how you’re supposed to approach strays here in this neighborhood. He skulked off to another corner after a while, and then I rode the elevator home, back to the hairy animal I could call mine.

He is clean. The Prophet loved cats, Mom tells me. Loved all of God’s creation, but cats are elevated. Their spit is clean, and they bury their shit. Like birds, they’re always doing dhikr, she says. On our first vacation abroad, Mom pointed at a flock of birds chirping in a manicured tree. It was maghrib. She said, since there’s no azaan here, they’re the ones giving it.

Tonight is like every other night in my loud neighborhood. The dogs have congregated on the main road, where the streetlights don’t work. The big bank next to our building throws a little light out, and the dogs catch it. Strong-backed, tall creatures with their snouts pointed up, mouths in perfect black Os. One opens his mouth to yawn and I see them, a set of perfect pearly whites. My mom groans from her bed, she’s trying to sleep. Why can’t they live somewhere only for dogs, do they need to be here? Dogs and donkeys, I tell you. Too many dogs and donkeys here.

She taught me to say Auzubillah when a donkey brays. I asked why this was so important. Because God hates the sound of donkeys. I never listen, so I’d imitate the sound till she would tell me to stop. You know, you can tell a donkey is depressed if it stands with its head against a wall. I saw one with its forehead against an electricity pole once, when I was driving to the dentist.

I take good care of my cat, I don’t think he’s depressed, no. I do everything. Tonight, I watch him twitch in his sleep, unable to imagine his dreams. Do his dreams take place in this flat? Is he chasing his toy, or a fly, or me? The dogs don’t stop howling. My mom slams the balcony door shut.

Our apartment building has a strict no-dogs-allowed policy, good enough for me. One day, I rode the elevator with an old woman who had a dog on a leash. Strong back, white fur – a stray. I smiled at the two of them, and the dog stayed ever so still and quiet. Sweet girl, Masha Allah. How’d they allow a stray in here? All three of us stayed silent the whole ride. I’d keep her secret.

Until one day the dog ran loose round the building. I got to the elevators and heard shouting. I saw her bolt down the stairs, a hot streak of light. Liaquat, the chowkidaar, followed her with a wiper in his hand, arm raised. He struck her back so hard the wiper broke clean in two. She disappeared down the stairs into the basement. You can’t do that to a dog, I thought. Liaquat told me her owner just lets her roam around the building and this isn’t even allowed, how else am I supposed to catch her? Don’t hit her. Naapak janwar hai, I can’t touch her.

I only caught a nanosecond of white fur. I pictured my cat’s orange back and a wiper breaking on top of it. Before I knew it, the old woman and I were outside my building, looking for her dog. The woman’s name was Naila Aunty.

She led me to the empty plot next to our building, and there she was, the white dog, fighting with another stray. Naila Aunty called out, Baby, come here. I never did catch the dog’s name, so I’ll call her Baby. Baby’s ears tilted back and she growled. These chowkidaars, they’ve scared her too much to trust me, Naila Aunty said. I nodded. But Baby barked at Naila Aunty so viciously I got a little scared. Then I remembered it was my cat’s dinnertime and that he’d be waiting for me at the kitchen door. The other dog opened his mouth and I saw white. Ropes of spit leaked from his mouth and I swore I could smell roses.

It unsettled me when my friend told me about how the fourth dimension is real. Maybe this life is the tail of a big creature and us dying is it being cut off. I nodded. I love her so much but I never make time to meet her dogs at her family home. She doesn’t mention it, and on call she goes on and on about all the funny bugs in Toronto. Talks about her brother and the dimension he could be in. She’s not the type to look for signs. A hippy friend told her that her brother is like a blue monarch butterfly. Then she came home from the park, looked outside her window, and saw him. Blue monarch butterfly. My friend lives on the 21st floor of a 50-story high rise.

Naila Aunty and I watched Baby eat kicks and punches. I didn’t try to butt in. That’s not how you break up a dogfight. I actually don’t know how to break up any kind of fight. Not man enough for that yet. It was maghrib time, and the air was getting cold. It tickled the buzzed hair on my neck. A man walking his pedigree golden lab noticed the scene, came over to us and started talking. You let her out enough, right? Yes, I don’t know how my baby escaped today. I took a few steps back and one muezzin began the azaan nearby. The whole neighborhood joined in, and the dogs kept fighting. I shifted my feet. At home my mom was probably playing the azaan on YouTube. We’re too high over the neighborhood to hear it. This isn’t right, this isn’t a good sign. My mother’s voice rang in my ears, this isn’t right this isn’t right this isn’t right. The other stray bit down on Baby as the muezzin took a deep, long breath. I held mine. At home, my mom cranks the azaan at full volume five times a day. I can hear it from outside our apartment door when I come back from university. Mom says we need this. When it ends, I hear myself breathe again. Baby yelped and I just stood there, pawing at my pockets to find my keys. It was time to feed my cat.

Isn’t the azaan too loud for a baby’s ear? I asked my mom at seven. No jaan, papa whispered it in your ear. That’s how you become Muslim. I nodded. There’s a baby photo of me getting my first haircut in my dad’s arms. You were really hairy in my tummy. You gave me so much heartburn.

Tonight, the dogs are howling at the moon. I wonder if their trash can puppies try to join in. If maggots are festering in their wounds. If a man is watching them near the bank with poison pills in his hand. My cat curls into a tight, hairy fist on my bed. The noise doesn’t bother him. His eye swelled up one winter, and he started walking slower. Stopped drinking water. The eye-drops I’d been putting in his eyes weren’t working. On the way to the vet I held his tiny, hairy body in my arms and my breath in my chest. How could I let it get this bad? I didn’t say anything to my dad who drove us, telling me he’ll be fine in no time. He told me this was what it felt like to take me to the doctor when I had a bad eczema flare-up as a baby; no idea what the doctor was going to say, what we were going to have to do to make you better.

Naila Aunty and the golden lab man had wandered off into a corner discussing the best dog toothpaste. I don’t know enough about dogs. I walked over to the tyre shop on the other side of the road and noticed another stray pawing at a biscuit wrapper. The men at the shop turned their heads towards me, eyes alight. The dog wasn’t as big as Baby, probably less than a year old. I didn’t know where his mom was. Carefully adjusting my body language, I went close, and he let go of the wrapper. There was something purple on his brown fur, it looked like ointment.

I straightened my spine and let out a loud, low sigh. The dog stared right at me, unfazed. The ointment was spread perfectly around the wound on his back. No maggots. No mama dog came over to fight me off. I looked around, and the men at the shop continued to take swigs of their chai. I looked around for a matka of water, a food bowl, a pair of eyes, a mother. I’m still looking.

The moon was out. The dog’s purple neck was proof enough – he is loved. He didn’t need me at all.