Every morning Id see Mrs. Margaret Hughes out in the courtyard of our block in Manchester. Shes about eighty, always dressed neat and tidy. I moved into the building at the end of autumn, and on my way to work Id spot her sometimes perched on a bench under a big lime tree, other times shuffling slowly with her cane.
After a few weeks we started saying hello. Id pause, ask how Margaret was feeling, wish her a good day, and shed flash me a warm smile and thank me.
Then, at the end of December, a stray dog showed up in the courtyard. He was small and scruffy, a real mophead with tangled fur and no clear breed. Nobody knew where hed come from. The moment Margaret tossed him a piece of sausage, his fate was sealed from that day on he stayed there. He probably wouldnt have survived elsewhere, looking as miserable as he did.
Most of the residents werent thrilled about the newcomer. A lot of them tried to shoo him away, shouting Go on, get lost! whenever he trotted over with his pleading eyes, silently begging for food. Still, he managed to snag a crumb here and a bone there. Margaret would give him stale biscuits or a slice of yesterdays bread, patting his head and calling him Paws.
When the snow finally melted in early spring, I ran into Margaret in the courtyard. She told me she was heading out that evening with her granddaughter, Lucy, to the country and would be there until autumn maybe even the end of it. Weve got a woodburner out there, and it stays nice and toasty even on the coldest nights, she said, making me promise to drop by.
In late August I finally made the trip. I bought her a small present about five pounds and caught the bus to the little village where she was staying. I found her on the veranda, peeling large red apples. Lying on the wooden steps was a dog, stretched out and looking content.
Paws, come on, greet our guest! Margaret called.
The dog leapt up, wagging his fluffy tail, and bounded toward me. He was a gorgeous fellow now, his coat glossy and wavy, catching the sunlight.
Mrs. Hughes, is this the same scruffy Paws from our courtyard? I asked, a bit stunned.
Yes, thats him! Hes turned into a real beauty, she replied with a grin. Come in, have a cup of tea. Tell me everything happening in the town!
We sat for a good while, sipping cherryflavoured tea and chatting away. After his porridge, Paws curled up by the warm stove, sighing softly as he drifted off maybe dreaming of something. Outside, a gentle breeze made the apple tree branches sway, and big, ripe red apples fell lazily onto the grass.
