The wind beat against the skyscrapers with ferocious malice, howling like a wolf at the midnight moon. It whipped through the narrow streets, unforgiving, creating a growing vortex of litter and grit that sucked the oxygen from the air and assaulted battered pedestrians, whose knitted hats and wool coats did nothing to prevent the sting of winter. The people bared no skin, their only defining feature being their eyes, which were cast down in absolute submissiveness.
There was one corner of the city that fared better than the rest, and it was coveted by every bum and guttersnipe who found themselves unlucky enough to be without a home. The wind wasn’t quite as sharp here, and an overhang shielded it from rain and snow. This particular corner, however, was taken up residence by Norman, a lanky man with a good heart and graying hair. He had been on the streets for as long as anyone can remember, and whenever people spoke of the city one would quip about “that bloke Norman, who rests on the corner of Second and Vernon.” Among his fellow vagabonds he was regarded as a kind soul who would loan a dollar when he only had two to his name, knowing he’d never see any of it again. To the upper and middle-classes, however, his name was denoted with scorn and a touch of disgust.
“What a leech. A no good, rotten leech.”
“I certainly won’t give a dime to that stiff, he probably funnels it towards his drug habit.”
“Has he no sense of pride? Be a man, get a job.”
Norman would wrap himself in his sleeping bag for as long as possible, trying to keep the winter chill out and his body heat in. The glare of the sun over the horizon, along with the bustle of early morning commuters, would wake him up not long after dawn, but he would lay there with his eyes wide open, his back to the street and the people and the city.
People kicked him. Some with a swift thump against his side, accompanied with a lackluster apology, others a deliberate blow that left bruises down his back and legs. Sometimes they aimed for his head, but years of experience had taught him to bundle his spare pair of pants and stuffing-less pillow above him so as to soften the blow.
He never faced towards the street, no matter how much his side ached nor how much his body begged for a change of position. He wouldn’t threaten the safety of his pup. His name was Koda. At night he would hold Koda close to his chest, under his shirt if it was especially cold out. He’d cradle him in his arms, scratch his underbelly while listening to his faint snoring, allowing himself a small smile at the fact this tiny creature, completely defenseless, would trust in him so completely. He trusted Norman to keep him safe.
Somehow the dog was unperturbed by the calm chaos of city life, sleeping before Norman went to bed and stirring long after he woke up. Going for walks was a nervous ordeal for Norman for a multitude of reason. First, Koda loved people, and he showed no hesitation in bounding up to someone and scratching at their leg, begging to be pet. His tongue would loll lazily out of his mouth and his tail would thump thump thump against the ground in ecstasy. Norman wound the leash tightly around his hand, ready to pull Koda to safety should anyone be especially vexed by his antics. More times than not, however, they were more than happy to oblige his unspoken requests. They would follow the leash, looking for his owner, and when they found him, the lighthearted gleam in their eyes would fade, their lip would curl just a bit, and they’d continue on their way. Sometimes people were nice and would hold his gaze, ask him what his dog’s name was.
“Koda,” Norman would say.
“How cute,” they’d muse before nodding and walking away. One time a man even shook his hand. That was a good day.
Norman also didn’t like leaving his corner unattended. He didn’t have many possessions to his name, but the ones he did were awfully precious to him. His sleeping bag, for one, was a Kifaru Slick Bag, one of the warmest and sturdiest sleeping bags available. Years ago Norman went to the Salvation Army (before it shut down and was remodeled as a high-end clothing boutique), and found it at the very back of the store, wedged between a clump of stuffed animals and gently used sweatshirts. It cost him $4.80, a major splurge on his part, but he knew it would pay off in the long run. They say you spend a third of your life sleeping, so your mattress might as well be the best quality.
Besides the sleeping bag, Norman left behind a spare pair of pants, a quarter bag of dog food, three and a half bottles of water, and $12.72 mostly in change. Anything of major importance he kept on him at all times. He knew the other vagrants would respect his property, but knowing the upper-class would be walking by his unguarded stash birthed an anxious knot in the pit of his stomach. Norman always tried to hurry Koda along, but could never seem to bring himself to pull him away from any hydrant. Or pole. Or patch of grass. So despite his nervous antics, Norman religiously walked Koda four times a day.
Mr. and Mrs. Lennox passed by his corner while Norman was still away with Koda.
“Did you see he has a dog now, dear? A tiny little thing it is,” Mr. Lennox inquired.
“Hmph,” Mrs. Lennox turned up her nose in disgust. “Probably swiped it right from Ms. Humphrey’s shop. And I’m sure the dog is starving, its fur matted with dirt no doubt. How can a man care for an animal when he can’t even care for himself?”
“What’s this, a private gala on Vernon Street?” Mr. and Mrs. Elingston stopped on the corner as well.
“Isn’t it despicable, Mary, that this scoundrel has the audacity to endanger the life of a defenseless animal?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Elingston agreed, “I’ve seen him take that thing around the block daily. Drags it by its neck, he does. Poor thing.”
“Something must be done.”
“Liza, you can’t change the world,” Mr. Lennox said to his wife.
“Nonsense. If we allow such…such…disregard to the overall wellbeing of this ci—“
“Hush, woman! Here he comes!”
Norman slowed his stride when he saw the group standing beside his sleeping bag. He picked up Koda and nodded in greeting. “Good day, gentlemen. Ladies.”
The women scoffed and turned their backs on him. Mr. Lennox smirked, assessing Norman with a rapt fascination.
Mr. Elingston took some change from his pocket and rattled it in his hand. “What are you willing to do for this?” he asked, showing a hand of mostly nickels and pennies. Norman didn’t respond, just held the squirming dog closer to him.
A mask of anger overcame Mr. Elingston and he began to fling the change at Norman. “Dance, you fool, dance!” Norman would not dance, though. He merely deflected the change with his shoulder, then bent down to pick it up, the dog still cupped under one arm.
“Pathetic.” The group left then, leaving Norman on his knees with a hand full of dirty change and eyes stinging from the bitter cold.
That night Norman fell into a restless sleep, his back poised against the road and Koda pressed tight against his chest. At three in the morning the streets were empty save for a few drunken stragglers trying to find their way back home and the looming group of hooded figures bickering in hushed tones as they approached Norman.
“Let’s make this quick. It’s not decent for a lady to be out at this late hour.”
“Are you sure we should be doing this, Liza?” her husband questioned.
“It is our duty as refined citizens is to maintain a certain standard of living in our city.”
“Isn’t there a better wa—”
“Both of you, shut up. Get in position,” Mr. Elingston said.
They circled around Norman, an indistinguishable bulge cocooned in his sleeping bag. Mr. Elingston silently counted down from three with his fingers, and then he and Mr. Lennox seized Norman and flipped him on his back. His eyes burst open. He opened his mouth to scream but Mr. Elingston stuffed it with a white cloth then pinned down his shoulders with his knees. Mr. Lennox restrained his legs from thrashing, and his wife unzipped the sleeping bag. Koda was on his feet, barking madly and snapping at anything that came near him. He latched on to Mrs. Lennox’s hand, but her glove was so thick she didn’t feel a thing. She gripped him by the scruff of his neck, almost dropping him twice as he struggled to wriggle out of her grasp.
“Someone get me the muzzle!”
Mrs. Elingston gingerly tried to attach the muzzle, but Koda’s thrashing snout knocked it from her hands. Mrs. Lennox let out a hair raising shriek as Koda bit her cheek. She dropped him to the ground and he landed on his back with a hard thud.
“Liza!” Mr. Lennox abandoned Norman’s legs and ran to his wife. Norman took the opportunity and swung his legs over his head, knocking Mr. Elingston off him. He spit the rags out of his mouth.
“Koda, come here boy!” He stumbled towards him, but Mr. Elingston yanked him backwards and punched him in the face, knocking him to the ground. He kicked him twice for good measure, causing an audible crack of his nose, blood pouring out like a faucet. One of Norman’s eyes was already beginning to swell, but he looked up in time to see Mrs. Lennox reel back her leg and send Koda hard into the wall. He landed in a slump on the ground, motionless.
“No! No! Koda!” Norman tried to crawl towards him, but Mr. Elingston easily held him back. Mrs. Elingston kneeled down and pressed her two fingers to Koda’s neck. He twitched once, twice.
“It’s still alive,” she mused.
“Then get that muzzle on it and let’s go,” Mrs. Lennox said, putting her hood up.
“No, please. Don’t,” Norman begged. “Why are you doing this?”
“What kind of people would we be if we allowed such indignant lowlifes to endanger the wellbeing of a defenseless animal?”
“He was fine until you came and put him halfway in his grave!”
Mrs. Lennox gasped. “How dare you speak to us like that.”
“Please give him back. He’s the only thing in the world that I care about. He’s all I have.”
“I don’t deal with thieves,” Mrs. Lennox spat.
“Thieves? No, I’m no thief. I bought him. Look, I can prove it!” Norman rummaged through his sleeping bag and pulled out a crumpled, weather-worn piece of paper. He handed it to Mr. Lennox.
“Why, it’s adoption papers. Paid for, in full, from Mrs. Humphry’s shop. Koda is his name.” The group was silent for a few moments. Doubt crept over Mrs. Elingston’s face as she held the unconscious dog in her arms. Mr. Elingston shuffled from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable.
“See?” Norman offered, “He’s legally mine. And he’s not neglected. I always make sure he gets enough food and water. He eats before I do. And I know how bitterly cold it gets, but with both of our body heats combined in that sleeping bag, it gets pretty toasty. He’s happy. He gives me purpose.”
Mrs. Lennox snatched the papers out of her husband’s hand. She bent own so she was eye level with Norman. “Listen to me you filthy street rat, you should be thanking us for even allowing you to rot away on your disgusting street corner. It’s lazy bums like you who are ruining the reputation of this city. You have nothing. You are nothing.” She straightened up and ripped the adoption papers into tiny scraps, sprinkling them on Norman.
“Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “Please, please don’t do this.” His good eye shone with tears, and he didn’t even attempt to wipe them away as they soaked his cheeks, mixing with the drying blood.
There was no response. Mrs. Lennox crossed the street with her head held high and the rest of the group followed closely behind, without even a glance back at Norman. He let out a guttural cry, so filled with angst that it hardly sounded human. He pounded his fists against the ground, calling out to them even after they were long out of his sight.
The sun began to creep over the horizon as Norman’s voice finally gave out, too hoarse to scream any longer. He bit his knuckle, unconsciously fingering Koda’s leash. He wrapped it around his hands, felt it digging into his soft flesh. He brought it to his nose, sniffed it, trying to hold on to any part he had left of his best friend.
Realistic Fiction
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