A dog sniffed the beggar's rotting foot. It was a scruffy dog, with a scarred face. Instead of recoiling from the mutt, the beggar stretched his hand to pet it. The gesture was greeted with bared teeth, so the beggar retracted his offer of friendship. He tried another tact. He searched his voluminous pocket and pulled out a crust of bread. The crust was dry, and began to crumble in his hand.
He reached again toward the dog, this time with bread as an offering. The dog hesitated, then leaned its head forward, eyes fixed warily on the bread. The animal snatched the remnant from the beggar’s palm.
Crumbs fell to the ground. The dog finished the morsel and eyed the crumbs. Slowly he advanced, following the crumb trail and nibbling until he was at the beggar’s side. This forlorn soul, a man who long ago had forsaken any hope of kinship, foraged in his pocket and withdrew another morsel.
The creature gobbled the scrap, sat in front of the man and stared expectantly at the beggar’s pocket.
“You learn quickly, my friend,” the canine’s benefactor chuckled.
In his pocket remained a tiny bit of bread, one he had put aside for dinner. The beggar wanted the dog to like him, so he collected the fragment from his pocket. The animal wolfed it down. As he did so, the man extended a hand and pet the dog’s back.
The hand was tolerated. The dog lay by the man’s side, lowered its head to its paws, and went to sleep.
“Ah, my friend,” the man murmured.
How many years had it been since he had a friend?
From that moment the beggar’s hunt for food became more urgent. He needed to feed the dog as well as himself.
Weeks passed. The beggar combed and washed the dog’s hair. As he traveled with his new companion he noticed donations increased. People stopped by his little pile of possessions to gaze at the dog.
“That dog is so cute,” one child said, and the parent threw down a quarter.
“Mommy, can I pet him?” another entreated.
“No dear, that’s not safe.”
Never looking at the beggar, the parent threw fifty cents on the pavement.
“Now the dog will have something to eat,” the mother comforted her child.
The beggar relocated his station frequently. Remaining too long in one spot would attract attention, and ire.
One day he moved to the alley behind a steakhouse. The trashcan there was brimming with discarded meat. For days the beggar and the dog ate well. On the fourth day, a worker wearing an apron approached. The beggar prepared to flee.
The worker called to the retreating figure, “Wait. I want to help.” He held in his hand a small, grease-stained bag
The beggar inched closer. The restaurant worker placed the greasy bag on the concrete, then retreated to the alley entrance.
Dog and beggar investigated the contents of the bag. Steak bits. Fries. Bread.
“Don’t worry,” the worker from his position at the end of the alley reassured. “Eat. I told the owner about the dog and he said it would be OK to bring out some food for the animal.”
After that, the beggar and the dog didn’t have to search for food. They were assured a meal, every evening.
The beggar forgot his rule about moving on. This place was safe. He was welcome.
When it rained the man covered the two of them with a tarp. When it snowed the two shared body warmth, and doubled the protection of the tarp. In good weather the two ventured into the street to stretch their legs.
The dog loved the park. The beggar increasingly had trouble walking because his foot had never healed. The strange purple hue was in fact traveling toward his leg.
It was on one of these excursions that the two friends ran into a stout woman who was walking a poodle. She stopped and addressed the beggar.
“What are you doing with that dog?” she demanded.
The beggar said nothing and hurried past her to his alley, where his station waited. By now the station had become quite elaborate. He’d converted a crate into a table. He had arranged planks so that his bedding would be elevated, protected from pooling water during rainstorms.
The poodle woman followed them, and stared into the alley.
She stood there for several minutes but said nothing and didn’t advance.
The next day, while he was sleeping, the dog growled. Then it crouched and barked fiercely. The beggar woke to find two uniformed men lassoing the dog.
“Stop!” He leapt to his feet and implored the men. “That’s my dog.”
One of the uniformed men turned to him and warned, “Stay back, unless you want to be charged with animal neglect. We don’t put up with that in this town.”
The beggar shrank into a small huddle.
His dog was whining and struggling against the harness that had been placed around his body and his mouth.
The uniformed men bundled the restrained animal into their van. In an instant, the van was gone.
The beggar slowly uncurled his body. He had strained his diseased foot by leaping to the dog’s defense. The wrapping around his ulcers was stained with an orange fluid, and blood.
The man regarded his home, his rumpled bedding. His glance lingered briefly on the dog’s food bowl. He wept.
That evening a restaurant worker entered the alley with a bag of food, as usual.
“Where’s the dog?” he asked in surprise. The dog was never far from the beggar’s side.
“They took him. Today. They came with a van, and they took him.”
The worker left the food.
The next day, at dinner time, nobody appeared in the alley entrance.
A day passed. The beggar was hungry. He found few scraps near the trash because the restaurant had begun to keep the bin tightly wrapped to comply with new regulations.
Darkness fell. The aroma of scorched steak permeated the alley.
No worker, no food, again.
Next morning the beggar gathered his belongings. He knew the pattern. Soon they would call the police. Best to keep moving. He walked unsteadily on the rotting foot. He wondered if anyone could smell what he smelled when he leaned over to wrap it.
Time passed. He was feverish. The leg throbbed. He no longer tried to dress his open wounds. He managed to get around by leaning heavily on a stick. He'd stopped thinking about food, but was consumed with one desire: return home, to the alley where he had lived with his dog.
He set up his station in the alley, and laid his head on a pair of rolled up pants.
The howling began during the steakhouse lunch service.
“You hear that?” The sous-chef turned to the pantry chef.
The pantry chef smiled.
“The dog!” They said in unison.
The sous-chef collected scraps of meat, stuffed them in a bag, and hurried out the door.
The dog was hovering over the prone beggar. The animal snarled as the chef approached.
“It’s me. Remember me?” he coaxed softly and reached toward the dog.
The animal leapt forward and grabbed the man’s hand in a vice-like bite. When the chef pulled away blood was gushing from his arm.
He ran back into the restaurant and called the police.
“There's a vicious dog in the alley. He might have killed a beggar already.”
The dog was seized by Animal Control, and euthanized.
An autopsy performed on the beggar revealed he died of sepsis. His body was requisitioned by a teaching institute, where it was used as an instruction cadaver.
People read about the brave sous-chef, the vicious dog. They came from afar to gawk at the alley. Many of them stayed for lunch.
In the end, the beggar and the dog were good for business.
Written in response to Inkwell fiction prompt #88: Hunger
Image: I made the picture from these public domain elements
Armarpreet Singh: Dog on
PixabayMyriams-photos: Beggar on
PixabayLenski: Brick Wall
PixabayI used a
Lunapic filter to finish it off
