This garden fence is the only spot that never drives me away. Sometimes I feel I’m attached…

People hurried past, some jogging, some strolling, but hardly anyone stopped.
Im not counting the days any more. If every one looks the same, if each begins and ends in the same way, the numbers lose their point. Here, by this weatherworn garden fence, morning only differs from evening in how the light falls. Rain and wind have become as ordinary as hunger and quiet. And yet 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 the house. Maybe Im still waiting for what? I havent the foggiest idea.

The narrow strip of pavement sat between the wavering fence and the footpath. My coat was matted, dull, the mud at my paws mixed with puddles, and the rain dribbled lazily from the rusted rails. People shuffled by: some in a rush, some at a lazy pace, and almost no one paused. If they glanced, it was only for a heartbeat, with tired or indifferent eyes. To them I was just another stray, tossed onto the street.

But I remembered another world. A world where mornings began with the smell of fresh bread. A tiny kitchen where Id twirl under the table, trying to reach the edge. The warm stove in winter and the landladys laugh when she tripped over her own foot. The soft hand that would simply pat my head.

Things changed slowly. First, only the occasional cold glance. Then a bowl that stayed empty more often than not. Shouts, rough words, shoved bodies. And one day I found myself beyond the threshold, without a goodbye, without an explanation. The door simply shut, and I was left outside.

I thought it was a mistake. I thought someone would call soon. But the door never opened, I muttered to the wind.

The street was my school, where lessons were learnt by dodging boots and leaping over cobbles, scrounging crumbs in front of corner shops. Occasionally I managed to pilfer a slice of loaf, or beg a kind soul for a bone. Yet whenever a passerby met my eyes, I hoped they might say, Come on, lets get you home.

That day was cold and damp. Rain had been falling since dawn, the wind stripping leaves from the oaks. Huddled together, I felt the chill seep into every bone. Then I heard footsteps. An old woman in a faded coat shuffled along, looking as lost as I felt. When she saw me, she stopped.

Good heavens, little one, whos hurt you so? she whispered.

you look at me differently. Not like the others who just pass by. Your eyes are warm, like the lady I once knew, I thought, though I couldnt speak.

She knelt beside me, but didnt reach out at once. Slowly she pulled a crust of bread and a thin slice of sausage from her bag.

Here, have a bite, she said.

I hesitated, as if the ground might give way beneath me. I took the food, chewing each morsel deliberately, as though it might vanish if I ate too fast. She didnt hurry me; she simply sat and watched.

Come along, she murmured, almost a whisper. Its warm inside. No one will hurt you there.

Will you can I really believe it? What if the door shuts again tomorrow?

I followed her anyway. The gate squeaked, and we stepped into a little courtyard. The old fence, now a shabby pictureframe, the apple tree with only skeletal branches, the house exhaling the scent of stew and fresh bread. The smell hit my memory like a slap, freezing me at the doorstep. The woman spread a threadbare blanket on the floor, poured clean water, and set a bowl of hot porridge.

This is your home now, she said, rubbing my head gently.

The night almost slipped by while I lay there, listening to the house settle, the floor creak, the kitchen pots clatter. She kept checking on me, adjusting the blanket, whispering:

Youre home, hear?

Home Ive been so scared Id never hear that word again, I thought.

Days passed differently. Shed wait for me at the door, bring the old, faded ball I used to chase. Shed sit beside me while she sipped tea, listening to my soft whines even though I couldnt make sense of the words. My coat grew soft again, my eyes bright.

Sometimes, when I trotted past that same weatherworn fence, I halted. I stared into the void as if my old selfwet, hungry, lostwere still there. The woman stepped forward, placed a hand on my neck, and said:

Come home.

Yes now I finally know where that is, I thought, tail wagging at last.