Daz sat motionless on the old park wall. Tired and cold he was wrapped up with all of his layers on. It had been a cold night for early November. His old rucksack was at his feet with not much in it. Just some plastic sheets, a sleeping bag and blanket.
The dog standing near him gave a tired stretch, reaching forwards. Arching, aching, willing the cold to leave its body.
“He’s not rushing I don’t think he can these days. Why should he, he must be getting old. He’s been on the streets as long as me. Ten years, is that old for a dog?”
The dog turned and looked at Daz in mid-stretch.
“I know it’s time, they said we had to go today but I’m feeding you first.”
Daz and his dog had been sleeping in the park all summer. Sheltering against the thick old Victorian wall. Home had been an old tent that he was leaving behind. A succession of visitors had been round recently. The guy from the council, police, a couple of nice folk from the homeless charity. They brought food for him and the dog.
“They always say the same. A shelter, talk of a house, furniture, heating. Questions always questions, who am I, where am I from, why am I on the streets”.
Daz loved his dog, it never asked questions, never judged, just stayed with him. He knew the dog understood.
The guy from the council had arrived standing by the park gates, on the phone. Always on the phone. Probably waiting for the police.
Daz took a plastic bag from his rucksack, just enough food for one meal. Leftovers from the sandwiches the people from the charity had brought and bits of burger from the bins. The dog sat patiently watching as the food was piled into the small plastic bowl.
“Nearly time to go, here you are boy”.
The dog looked at Daz once more.
“Don’t worry I’ll get mine later, something will turn up. It always does”.