This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes I feel like Ive grown attached to it
People walked past: some hurried, some moved slowly, but hardly anyone stopped.
“Ive stopped counting the days. When every one is the same, when everything begins and ends the same way, numbers lose their meaning. Here, by this rusty fence, morning only differs from evening in how the light falls. Rain and wind have become as familiar as hunger and silence. And yet, I havent left. This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes I feel as though Ive clung to it the way I once did to a home. But maybe Im still waiting for what? I dont know.”
She sat on the narrow strip of earth between the wobbly fence and the pavement. Her fur was matted and dull, the mud beneath her paws mixed with rainwater as the drizzle dripped slowly from the rusted bars. People passed bysome in a rush, others at a leisurely pace, but almost no one paused. If they did glance her way, it was only for a second, with tired or indifferent eyes. To them, she was just another stray dog left on the street.
But she remembered another world. A world where mornings began with the smell of toast. A small kitchen where shed curl around legs, trying to reach the table. The warmth of the stove in winter and the laughter of the woman whod trip over her. The gentle hand that would stroke her head just because.
Everything changed slowly. First, it was just cold, distant looks. Then a bowl left empty more and more often. Shouts, harsh words, nudges with a foot. And then one day, she found herself on the wrong side of the doorstep. No goodbye, no explanation. The door simply closed, and she was left outside.
“I thought it was a mistake. I thought theyd call me back soon. But the door never opened again.”
Life on the street was a cruel teacher, where lessons came with kicks and scrapes. She learned to dodge stones, hide from sticks, and scavenge crumbs outside shops. Sometimes she managed to steal a crust of bread or beg a bone from a rare kind stranger. But even then, whenever she met a passerbys gaze, shed still hope: *Maybe this one will say, Come on, lets go home.*
That day was cold and damp. Rain had fallen since dawn, the wind tearing leaves from the trees. She sat curled up, feeling the chill seep into her bones. Then she heard footsteps. A woman in an old coat walked slowly, as if she wasnt sure where she was going. When she saw her, she stopped.
“Goodness little one, whos done this to you?” she murmured.
*You look at me differently. Not like the others who walk past. Your eyes are warm, like hers were.*
The woman crouched beside her but didnt reach out right away. Slowly, she pulled a piece of bread and sausage from her bag.
“Here, eat.”
She stepped forward cautiously, as if the ground might vanish beneath her. She took the food, chewing each bite carefully, as though afraid it might disappear. The woman didnt rush herjust sat and watched.
“Come on,” she said softly, almost whispering. “Its warm inside. No one will hurt you anymore.”
*Youre calling me But can I trust it? What if tomorrow, the door shuts again?*
Still, she followed. The gate creaked as they stepped into a small yard. The peeling fence, the apple tree stripped bare. The house smelled of soup and fresh bread. The scent hit her memory so sharply she froze on the threshold. The woman spread an old blanket on the floor, poured clean water, and set down a bowl of warm porridge.
“This is your home now,” she said, gently touching her head.
That night, she barely slept. She lay listening to the woman moving aboutthe creak of floorboards, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. More than once, the woman peeked in, adjusted the blanket, and whispered:
“Youre home now, understand?”
*Home I was so afraid Id never hear that word again.*
The days passed differently now. She waited by the door, brought her faded old ball. She curled up beside the woman as she drank tea, listening to her voice even when she didnt understand the words. Her fur grew soft again, her eyes clear.
Sometimes, when they passed that old fence, shed stop. Shed stare at nothing, as if her old self still sat therewet, hungry, lost. The woman would step closer, rest a hand on her neck, and say:
“Come on, lets go home.”
*Yes now I know where it is.*
