Pages From a Dog’s Diary #2
#9 of Short Stories
Pages From a Dog's Diary #2
There is a strange old house on Thistle lane.
I've always believed it was vacant, but today I saw something that makes me stop and look at the curious house, whenever I pass by; if for just a moment.
The house lies in a quiet garden, and behind it grows a row of tall, windblown trees. An old statue without a head stands alone in the grass.
One of its arms is missing too, so the pitcher it was meant to carry floats freely in mid air, attached only to the statue's leg. I've always thought there was something unsettling about this guy.
Next to the house, a row of wooden poles stick up from the ground, all connected by chicken wire. Maybe someone kept chickens there at some point, but the house itself is dark and deserted. I've never seen lights pouring from the windows, or smoke rising from the chimney.
But today, as I was idling past, thinking about nothing and barely noticing the melancholic statue on the lawn, the front door opened and a frail, white-haired woman stepped outside.
She was old, and wore a gray shawl around her shoulders. She carried a bowl in one hand and a paper bag in the other. She walked along the stone path, where she put down her bowl. Then she bent down by the foot of the ugly statue and poured something from her paper bag. She noticed me in that moment and spoke to me, but her voice was so tiny and fragile, I could not make out any words.
When the door had closed behind her, I walked into the garden, but I soon stopped. Three cats now played around the little bowl, and sparrows began flocking around the foot of the statue in a noisy choir. I left the garden, quietly the way I came in, as to not disturb the scene.
Now I know the house is alive. Although the windows always seem dark, there's a tiny flame burning in there, behind the gray old walls.