I loved his energy. He would woof each time he laid his eyes on me.
“Don’t you get tired?”
My neighbour had brought him home several years ago. He was the first dog in a neighbourhood of cats. While I feared for the cats initially, it soon turned out that my fears had been baseless. The dog – he was christened Lucky – always kept a safe distance from the cats.
He had barked his head off at them one fine morning. My foolhardy cats didn’t bat an eyelid. Lucky was supremely insulted to say the least and he refrained from interacting with them ever since.
Come December, Lucky would lap up the winter sunshine and woof away merrily at us. When the pigeons settled on our washing line, he would gaze longingly at them. Daydreaming, sleeping and woofing comprised his daily agenda. Occasionally, he would flap at flies and make grunting sounds at any stranger who happened to lurk within miles of our street.
When I stand in my balcony now, I cannot hear Lucky’s woofing. He passed away last month, taken away by a debilitating disease. The pigeons continue to congregate on the washing line. When December arrives, the sun will shine down on the terrace, lighting up the otherwise dull, winter day. The world will continue to hustle and bustle. My neighbour’s balcony, however, will be without its little bundle of energy.