People hurried past me, some in a dash, others at a lazy stroll, but hardly anyone stopped.
Ive stopped counting the days, I thought. When every sunrise looks the same and every night ends the same, numbers lose their meaning. Here, by this rusted fence, morning only differs from evening by the way the light falls. Rain and wind have become as familiar as hunger and silence. And still I didnt go away. This fence is the only thing that doesnt chase me off. Sometimes I feel attached to it the way I once was to a home. Yet I keep waiting for what? I have no answer.
On the narrow verge between the fence and the pavement, the fence sagged, its oncebright paint dulled, the ground beneath a sludge of mud and water, rain dripping slowly from the corroded rails. People passed: some hurried, some lingered, but almost none paused. If they glanced, it was only a fleeting looktired or indifferent. To them I was just another stray, left out on the street.
But I remembered another world. A world where mornings began with the smell of fresh bread. A tiny kitchen where my paws spun beneath a table I could never quite reach. The warmth of a coal stove in winter and the laugh of the lady of the house when she tripped over her own foot. The gentle hand that would stroke my head.
Everything changed bit by bit. At first only rare, cold glances. Then a bowl that stayed empty more often than not. Shouts, harsh words, pushes. And one day I found myself beyond the threshold, without goodbye, without explanation. The door shut, and I was left outside.
I thought it was a mistake. I thought theyd call me back soon. But the door never opened.
The street became my school, lessons taught with blows and bruises. I learned to dodge sticks, to sidestep stones, to scrounge crumbs outside shops. Occasionally I managed to steal a slice of loaf or beg a kindly passerby for a bone. Yet whenever a stranger met my eyes, I still hoped, Maybe youll be the one who says, Come home.
That day was cold and damp. Rain had been falling since dawn, the wind tearing leaves from the oaks. I curled up, feeling the chill seep into every bone, when I heard footsteps. An elderly woman in a faded coat shuffled slowly, as if she didnt know where she was heading. When she saw me, she stopped.
Heavens, little one, whos hurt you so? she whispered.
You look at me differently. Not like the others who pass by. Your eyes are warm, like the lady I once knew as my mistress.
She knelt beside me but didnt reach out at once. Slowly she pulled a crust of bread and a piece of sausage from her bag.
Here, have a bite.
I hesitated, as if the ground might give way beneath my paws. I took the food, chewing each mouthful slowly, as if fearing it might vanish. She didnt rush me; she simply sat and watched.
Come with me, she murmured, her voice barely more than a sigh. Its warm inside. No one will hurt you there.
Will you? Can I trust it? What if tomorrow the door shuts again?
I followed her nonetheless. The gate creaked, and we stepped into a modest courtyard. The fence, now splintered, a lone apple tree stripped to bare branches. The house exhaled the scent of stew and fresh bread. The aroma struck me so sharply that I froze at the doorstep. The woman spread an old blanket on the floor, poured clear water, and ladled out a bowl of warm porridge.
This is your home now, she said, gently brushing my head.
Night slipped by almost unnoticed. I lay there, listening to the soft creak of floorboards, the clatter of pots in the kitchen. She kept adjusting the blanket, whispering, Youre home, hear?
Home Ive feared Id never hear that word again, I thought.
Days passed differently. She waited for me at the door, bringing an old, frayed ball. She lay beside me while I drank tea, her voice soft even when I could not make out the words. My coat grew glossy again, my eyes bright.
Sometimes, when I passed that particular fence, I stopped. I stared into the emptiness as if my former selfwet, hungry, loststill sat there. The woman approached, placed a hand on my neck, and said:
Lets go home.
Yes now I finally know where it is, I replied, feeling the weight of years lift.
