for Sunday Photo Fiction.
They were usually there when I walked down the road, their heads poking from the gaping window of Jack’s terraced house. Jack’s dogs were the nearest thing he had to a family. Brown and Black, he called them. He was never one for flowery words and fancy names! Most stopped to stroke them, some took them a biscuit.
Jack was quite frail but Brown and Black took him for a walk most days. Not far, not fast, just a gentle stroll stopping occasionally for a few words with people they passed. Jack was a man of few words.
There was something different that day. Brown and Black weren’t their usual calm selves. They leaned out, frantically sniffing my shopping bag. Hoping for a treat, I thought; it didn’t occur to me they might not have been fed.
A couple of days later I heard Jack had fallen asleep in his chair never to wake.
Quite a few attended Jack’s funeral. The modest gravestone was typically understated. Just his name and the dates. His neighbour accompanied Brown and Black. I’ll never forget the sight of them pawing soil from the graveside and scattering it on Jack’s coffin.
RIP old chap.
Thanks to Donna for hosting. The picture is courtesy of Bobbie & Devin