It was a quiet day in the street.
The yapping dog across the street, in number 42, had been driving him nuts for weeks. But today, it was eerily quiet. His mind went back to the day before. On his way home from work, he stopped off at the shops in the high street. As he came out of the supermarket his attention was grabbed by the name on a vehicle’s door. It was a utility vehicle, belonging to a plumbing company, parked in the street. What he noticed was the name of the town it was from. He had lived there himself a few years before, it was a good two-hour drive away. Something other than a plumbing job had obviously brought it all this way from its home base.
Having a few minutes before his bus, he strolled over to take a closer look. It was then that he saw the scruffy little dog curled up on some old sacks in the back. At the time it had occurred to him that it looked very much like the yapper from his street. It was a Yorkshire terrier, but they must all look alike to some degree. He felt a twinge of guilt when he found himself wishing this was the one from his street, about to be taken across the country, never to be heard from again.
He leant forward. It was wearing a collar with a name disc partly hidden under tufts of hair. He didn’t want to wake it up. It would have been useless anyway, as he didn’t know the name of the troublesome dog in his street. He could see the letters ‘e l o’, just maybe that was all there was to it; a pet named after a pop group.
He went back to his bus stop and waited. Shortly before the bus came, a man returned, climbed into the utility and drove off.
That was yesterday. Today, a deathly silence had fallen over the street. Maybe the woman in number 42 had done what the man in number 44 had suggested, quite forcibly, that she get a muzzle for her dog. It was such a yapper; only a small dog, but amazingly loud.
The man who lived across the street from the offending animal was now enjoying the rare silence, stretched out on his sofa, reading his book, when his doorbell went.
He opened the door to be confronted by a nervous looking lady from number 42. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s my Angelo.”
The whole thing became clear to him in a flash. “Angelo?” he echoed, playing for time.
“Yes, you know, my little doggy. You’ve probably heard his happy little bark.”
He froze for a moment, then gathered himself. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, help, of course!” she flapped her hands. “Sorry, I’m a bit frantic I’m afraid. Him being out there somewhere.” She waves a hand at the street. “He’s simply not use to it. You know, the big wide world. He knows nothing about it. I keep him in the house you see. He must have escaped.”
“So,” he said slowly, trying to calm her down by example, “you’re telling me that you’ve lost your dog, right?”
“Yes. Right.”
“And you came to me… why?”
She lowered her voice. “The neighbours either side aren’t very nice,” she whispered. She was obviously completely oblivious to just how much angst this creature had been creating.
“OK. I’ll look out for it,” he said, and closed the door.
He returned to his book, enjoying a newfound peace.