The mother sat next to two empty bowls, bereft of life, not moving in the small area of green encircled by flats. A place we call paradise in this concrete jungle.
I went down and tried to comfort her, though separated by species, she knew what I meant. But it wasn’t always like this…
As winter moved in at the tail end of last year, the dog now lying below me with only 3 paws, the other blown off by hateful zealots, was brought to our patch, followed by her three puppies.
Each day they would dance in the field and in our hearts. People in the area came to life, in minutes a home was built for them, so good one half expected it to have central heating.
The father was brought from the village and we had our family, completed now with a half-sister puppy.
They loved each other and we loved them. And then, someone passed by, foreign to these parts. Looked out of their car window, phoned, and in the morning, they were gone.
Everyone’s faces were bowed down, the children glanced over with tears in their eyes. “Where have they gone?”
As the weeks passed the grass grew over “their patch.”
Until one day at the dead of night a lorry opened and the pitter patter of paws could be heard once again. (DM/VK)
