This Fence Is the Only Thing That Doesn’t Drive Me Away. Sometimes I Feel Like I’ve Grown Attached…

This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes, I feel like Ive grown attached

People walked past: some hurried, some moved slowly, but almost no one stopped.
Ive stopped counting the days. When every one is the same, when everything begins and ends the same way, the numbers lose meaning. Here, by this rusty fence, morning only differs from evening in how the light falls. Rain and wind have become as familiar as hunger and silence. And yet, I havent left. This fence is the only place that doesnt drive me away. Sometimes, I feel as though Ive clung to it like I once did to a home. But maybe Im still waiting for what? I dont know.

She sat on the narrow strip of dirt between the wobbly fence and the pavement. Her fur was matted, dull, the mud beneath her paws mixing with rainwater as it dripped slowly from the rusted bars. People passed bysome rushing, some strollingbut hardly anyone paused. If they did glance her way, it was only for a second, with tired or indifferent eyes. To them, she was just another stray dog, left on the street.

But she remembered another world. A world where mornings began with the smell of toast. A little kitchen where shed wriggle underfoot, trying to reach the table. The warmth of the stove in winter and the laughter of the woman when she tripped over her. The gentle hand that used to stroke her head.

Everything changed slowly. At first, just cold, distant looks. Then a bowl left empty more and more often. Shouts, harsh words, being shoved aside. And then one day, she found herself outside the front door. No goodbye, no explanation. The door simply closed, and she was left behind.

I thought it was a mistake. I thought theyd call me back soon. But the door never opened again.

Life on the street was a cruel school, where lessons came at the cost of bruises and scrapes. She learned to dodge sticks, avoid thrown stones, and scavenge crumbs outside shops. Sometimes she managed to steal a piece of bread or beg a bone from a rare kind stranger. But even when she caught a passerbys eye, she still hoped: Maybe theyll be the one to say, Come on home?

That day was cold and damp. Rain had fallen since morning, and the wind tore leaves from the trees. Huddled up, she felt the chill seep into her bones. Then she heard footsteps. A woman in an old coat walked slowly, as if she herself wasnt sure where she was going. When she spotted her, she stopped.

Oh, love whos done this to you? she murmured.

You look at me differently. Not like the others who walk past. Your eyes are warm, like hers werethe woman I once called mine.

The woman knelt beside her but didnt reach out right away. Slowly, she pulled a piece of bread and sausage from her bag.
Here, eat.

She crept forward cautiously, as if the ground might vanish beneath her. She took the food and ate slowly, chewing every bite as if afraid it might disappear. The woman didnt rush her, just sat and watched.
Come on, she said softly, almost whispering. Its warm inside. And no one will hurt you anymore.

Youre calling me But can I trust it? What if tomorrow the door closes again?

Still, she followed. The gate creaked as they stepped into a small yard. A peeling fence, an apple tree with bare branches. The house smelled of soup and fresh bread. The scent hit her memory so sharply that she froze on the threshold. The woman spread an old blanket on the floor, poured fresh water, and set down a bowl of warm porridge.
This is your home now, she said, gently touching her head.

That night, she barely slept. She lay there, listening to the woman move about the housethe creak of floorboards, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. More than once, the woman peeked in, adjusted the blanket, and whispered:
Youre home now, understand?

Home I was so afraid Id never hear that word again.

The days passed differently now. She waited by the door when the woman returned, bringing her faded old ball. She curled up beside her while she drank tea, listening to her voice even if she didnt understand the words. Her fur grew soft again, her eyes clear.

Sometimes, when they walked past that old fence, she paused. She stared at the spot as if her old self still sat therewet, hungry, lost. The woman would step closer, rest a hand on her neck, and say:
Come on, home.

Yes now I know where it is.