Ch-1: Summer
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Rusty’s ears suddenly twitched and stood up. His nose flared and he looked, first to the left, then back at us. “The cat’s here, too.” He announced.

Even being the oldest street dog around, with his joints creaking like the slimy frogs on a rainy day, his ears and nose were still the sharpest among us four of the pack. Pack, we were, not of four but five until just a day ago when Cob, who was oldest of us besides Rusty, was hit by a car. He didn’t survive. It was heartbreaking to see him go like that.
At least he died quickly, Rusty had said. I wish he hadn’t died at all.

He was the calm one, the leader. Never bit anyone, nor harassed the homeowners or their cubs unreasonably, but neither did he ever step down from a challenge whether from another pack or a homeowner. He was always vigilant of them. Don’t touch me and I won’t touch you was his motto.

He had the shiniest of brown coats with the blackest of stripes covering his face, back, and tail. The rest of him was cloud white. His different colors suited him perfectly. The side that had faced the weather was hard and unforgiving, while inside he was calm and loving. The homeowners called him tiger for his mean look, but for us, he was simply Cob. He was deeply missed.

Rusty used to tell me about his past. He told me Cob had a partner once, a home where he lived and a family he loved, but they left him behind when they moved. That he never forgot them for he loved them dearly, but also didn’t forgive them either. It, we had both concluded during one such session, must have been the reason why he remained distant to the others of their kind, the homeowners, and rejected the few times he was offered the warmth of their space and never accepted a piece of their food.
Maybe it was also why he didn’t like my associations with Kanti, the homeowner who had taken a liking to me; whom I also liked back with the same passion and intensity, maybe even more. Cob never told me to not get involved with Kanti and never did he treat me differently. But every once I did find him standing in the shade behind the park's wall watching us play and run and enjoying each other’s company. I never considered it then, but now I realize I must have reminded him of his past and brought to surface the wounds of his heart that had never healed.
If he was alive I would have asked him, but now I’ll never know.
 
Dimple was instantly up at the mention of the cat. He lowered his weight on his haunches facing the cat, ready to launch at any sign of mischief. Dimple didn’t like the cat for some reason, even though Cob enjoyed his company and Dimple followed Cob in his every other like and dislike. Everyone knew his hate bordering dislike for almost everyone, but he never showed it—except the cat. The cat he never allowed anywhere around himself. Dimple hated the sight of him, the smell of him. But he loved Cob. Everybody loved Cob—respected him.
Dimple had his reasons for the hate though. It was jealousy. He had a sad past: sadder than most even dare to fictionalize. Stoned by the homeowners since his pup days and chased away by other dogs and packs where ever he went, life hadn’t been kind to him. His body bore the signs of it all, faded and hidden by time, but present nonetheless. However, where everyone else had shunned him Cob had taken him in, helped him when he was at his weakest. Cob had supported Dimple during his loneliest days, and Dimple didn’t want to share or lose the one pillar of support he had miraculously found. Dimple had always stood at the edge of the deep and dark oblivion where his anger resided and festered… Cobs' death had only pushed him into it.

I turned too and found the cat lazing atop the boundary wall separating our side of the field —where one of the old homeowners had buried Cob— and the streets and homes. His eyes were fixed at us and his tail down, he was mourning too.

“What.Do.You.Want?” Dimple rasped in hot boiling anger. The hairs on his back were up and straight, and so was his tail and ears. He was blazing, ready to shoot at the cat if it dared come down from the wall.

The last I had seen him growling with such anger was when he and Cob had contended against Pits and Dark’s crew of four from the shopping district of five blocks away over Ginger, a lean, long-faced female with ginger hair. But even then his bark had contained more playfulness than bite. This time, however, was different. I knew Dimple would go after the cat if it even as much as meowed or swayed his tail.
Dimple had always been shot tempered. It comes with being harassed daily. The bullying had carried on without stopping, of course. Rusty had advised him one too many times to keep his anger in check, but he didn’t care to listen. They are the enemies, he would say every time. If it wasn’t for Cob who knows how many he could have hurt. But Cob was no longer around to stop him.

“Let him be, Dimple.” Rusty tried to coax him. He took a paw forward to nudge Dimple, which made me huddle up with anxiousness, but he decided against it and I released the breath I was holding. I knew the nudge would have startled the black dog and set him off. There is no knowing where that would have led. Frustration for Dimple likely; the homeowner’s anger was also a conformed thing for howling crazily in the middle of the night, which is a big no-no for a group of strays. One can do almost anything but never anger the homeowners. Nothing good ever comes from doing that.

Rusty couldn’t pacify Dimple, however, for the lanky black dog wasn’t listening. He kept growling at the cat as if he was the reason behind Cob's death. Actually, no one knew how Cob had died. We all knew to stay clear of the hurtling cars and other pets the homeowners controlled. It was a mystery how Cob could have died the same way he had warned us about so many times in the past.

“Stop, Dimple!” Rusty barked, almost howled, when Dimple tried to rush away. His voice made my ears ring and itch. That made me scared, and Dimple did stop growling. He just froze; as if a memory had surfaced from the depths of his mind. Rusty might not have looked like much because of age and poor diet, but he had once been the top dog around. He had fathered generations of pups and seen them grow and leave. Although of age, his voice still held that cold-throat-clenching bite Cob had amused about during one of his evening stories.
Rusty had stood up, his body taut with such aggression and tension that screamed at me of danger. Oh, how I cowered away from him whining, not realizing it wasn’t me he was focused upon. He savagely growled as Dimple meekly turned his head back at him, almost shaking. Rusty told him to sit down and Dimple did, ablest after staring for a long time into Rusty’s eyes. Even then, it wasn’t fear that made his into fold his paws under him and lay his face flat on the ground, but longing.

We all stayed like that for a minute. Rusty kept his unblinking eyes on Dimple, not sure what to do next. Ginger yawned from time and time again, uninterested in their antics. I stared at the two of them, praying our pack would stay strong, while the cat watched us impassively from the wall. But no matter how I wished for us to remain together, the cracks had already formed. Cob hadn’t just made the pack, he was The pack. Without him we were just individuals: Rusty was old and weary, Dimple was angry and boiling, I intended to leave with Kanti, and Ginger hadn’t spoken a word since we had gathered.

Rusty sat down slowly after, his joints crackling like falling rocks. He looked tired. None of us spoke again. All of us remembered Cob in our own way as the night spun darker and colder. The cat left first with a meow, letting us know he was going. Then Ginger stood up sometime later and stretched. She looked at us, her eyes red but also dozy, opened her long mouth to say something, but then a sudden draft of wind made her shiver. She shook her grizzly brown hair to get her blood pumping, looked at me, sighed, and left without saying anything in the end. We three stayed for a bit longer before Rusty also got up, his bones grinding scary loud against each other. He didn’t stretch but licked my face like he’d done every other night, and slowly swayed away onto the street which shone golden under the lamplight and away still past the corner and out of my sight. Neither of the two made a comment.

When I left Dimple was yet to move from his place, but the cold had become uncomfortable for my not even year old body. I didn’t want to leave him alone there, but he was not moving and I couldn’t work up the courage to ask him to come with me.

I worried myself to sleep, hugging the soft plush toy Kanti had left me in the warm home he had built by stacking bricks, believing that nothing had changed that the four of us were still a pack, but also hoping that Kanti would return soon. I missed him more than I missed Cob.

It was the coldest night of my life, colder even than the night that had coaxed my mother to never wake up again.

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