Every morning, when I set off for my work in the city, I would pass the small courtyard of the terraced houses where I had taken up residence at the tailend of last autumn. There, a frail old lady about eighty, always neatclothed and careful in her ways would be there. I soon learned her name was Eleanor Smith, and she would sit now and then on a bench beneath a towering lime tree, or shuffle slowly along the path, leaning on a wooden cane.
In time we began to exchange greetings. I would pause briefly to ask how Eleanor was faring and to wish her a pleasant day, and she would return my smile with a warm nod and a soft thankyou.
At the close of December a new resident appeared in the courtyard: a dog. It was a small, scruffy thing, its coat tangled and its breed impossible to pin down. When Eleanor tossed it a slice of sausage, the creatures fate was sealed from that moment it made the courtyard its home, for it might never have survived elsewhere in such a wretched state.
Most of the other tenants were not pleased. They would shout, Shoo! Get out of here! whenever the animal came trotting up, eyes pleading for a scrap. Yet on occasion someone would fling a crust of bread, another an old bone, and Eleanor herself would bring the dog a biscuit or a piece of stale loaf, patting its head gently and calling it Patch.
When the spring thaw had nearly finished the last of the snow, I met Eleanor in the courtyard one bright morning. She told me she would be departing that very evening with her granddaughter to the country, where they would stay until autumn perhaps even until the end of the season. We have a coalfilled stove out there, she said, and by its heat it stays warm even on the coldest nights. She asked me to promise a visit.
In late August I finally took her up on that promise. After buying her a small present, I caught the bus to the village where she was staying. I found her perched on the verandah, peeling large, rosy apples. Lying stretched out on the wooden steps beside her was a dog, sleeping peacefully.
Patch, come and greet our guest! the old lady called. The dog sprang up, tail wagging furiously, and bounded toward me. Its coat, now glossy and wavy, caught the sunshine and shone like oil on water.
Mrs. Smith, is this the same shaggy Patch from our courtyard? I asked, astonished.
Yes, thats him! Hes turned out to be a fine fellow! she replied with a grin. Come in, have a cup of tea and tell me all the news from the town!
We sat together for a long while, sipping cherryinfused tea and exchanging stories. After his porridge, Patch curled up by the warm stove, sighing softly in his sleep, as if dreaming of something gentle. Outside, a light breeze coaxed the apple trees to sway, and ripe, red apples drifted down onto the grass, settling like small, orange suns.
