“Shh… do you hear that rustling?” came the alarmed whispers as passersby approached the pram left by the bins.
Shortly after New Years, the residents of the postwar block of flats No. 7 noticed an old pram abandoned near the rubbish bins. At first, it was dismissed as just more cluttertorn fabric, bent wheels, a wobbly handle. But gradually, it became a local oddity. “Steer clear, youll snag your coat,” theyd warn. The caretaker, Geoffrey, often promised to haul it away for scrap, but something always got in the waya broken trolley, a sudden snowstorm, a shift change at the security booth.
One frosty February morning, as melting icicles chimed in the courtyard, two elderly neighbours, Mrs. Clarkson and Mrs. Whitmore, settled onto their usual bench for a gossip.
“What a nasty sight,” tutted Mrs. Clarkson, eyeing the pram. “Couldnt they just bin it properly?”
“Youth these days have no sense of responsibility,” agreed Mrs. Whitmore.
Just then, a Year 4 boy named Oliver Thompson trudged past, rolling a snowball ahead of him. He was about to lob it at the pram when he froze, crouched low, and whispered,
“Quiet theres something moving in there!”
The women fell silent.
“Whos there, eh? Some rascal?” Mrs. Clarkson tightened her grip on her walking stick.
Oliver knelt in the slushy snow and lifted the torn cover.
Two big dark eyes, a coffee-coloured muzzle, and a damp little nose poked out.
“A puppy!” Oliver breathed.
The tiny thing gave a feeble wag of its tail, as if smugly greeting them, then curled up and promptly fell asleep.
Mrs. Whitmore hastily crossed herself.
“Good heavens, a stray by the binsjust begging for disease.”
Oliver gently stroked the pups head.
“Hes so little, half-frozen. Can I take him home?”
“Your mumll have your hide,” scoffed Mrs. Clarkson. “Youve already got that cat strutting about like royalty.”
“Ill ask!” Oliver bolted toward the flats.
The women stayed behind, already bickering over whod have to deal with this “dog business.”
Minutes later, Oliver came running back, out of breath.
“Mum saysvet first, then well see. Geoff!” he shouted across the courtyard. “Help me move the pram!”
The caretaker, untangling his earphones, wheeled over his trolley.
“Whats this? Rats?”
“A puppy!”
“Where from?”
“Dunno. Quick, before he freezes solid!”
Geoffrey grumbled loudly but bent down.
“Right then, little enginemove out, Ive got you.”
At the vets clinic on the corner, the air smelled of antiseptic and damp newspapers. The vet, Dr. Emily Hart, examined the pup, shone a light in his eyes.
“Starving. Body temps low, but nothing critical. Male. About eight weeks. Breed? Figure it out yourselves,” she chuckled.
Oliver, fidgeting on the stool, twisted his coat sleeves.
“Can we keep him?”
“This is a big responsibility, you understand?” the vet said sternly.
Oliver nodded so hard his fringe bounced.
“Ill walk him, feed him. Swear on Minecraft.”
Dr. Hart laughed.
“Vaccines in a week. Flea treatment today.”
The pup sat quietly on the table, as if knowing he was safe now.
“Whatll you call him?” the vet asked, filling out forms.
Oliver thought, remembering the abandoned pram.
“Percy.”
“Fitting,” she smiled. “And his surname? Lets make it Yardley.”
When Olivers mum, an accountant, saw them at the door, she sighed.
“Decided to upend our lives without consulting me?” she said wearily.
Oliver lifted the pupwho let out a tiny squeak.
“Mum, look! His paws look like hes wearing little socks!”
They really were snow-white. His mum softened.
“Fine. But youre paying for the carrier, pads, and food. From your pocket money.”
“Ill help Geoff unload deliveries!” Oliver blurted.
And so, Flat 16 gained Percy Yardley.
Word spread fast. A sleepy uni student, Sophie, came down from the second floor.
“Found him in a pram? Like a fairy tale!”
“Come meet him,” Oliver said. “Percys dead friendly.”
By midnight, retired neighbour Mrs. Cooper had brought leftover chicken “to build his strengthhe might not make it otherwise.”
“No fatty foods!” Oliver protested, waving the vets instructions.
Percy crunched it down happily anyway.
Within a week, hed mastered a makeshift litter tray and stopped chewing shoes. Each morning, Oliver walked him past the binsshowing him his old “home.”
Mrs. Clarkson and Mrs. Whitmore were on their bench.
“This is him,” Oliver said proudly.
Mrs. Clarkson couldnt resist stroking his glossy fur.
“Shiny as a conker! Proper little May pup.”
“January,” Oliver corrected.
“Youre lucky,” Mrs. Whitmore muttered. “Another day, hed have been roadkill.”
Oliver bent to Percy.
“Hear that? Youre lucky you got me.”
Percy licked his hand.
By spring, the yard was all puddles. Oliver and his mate Liam kicked a football about, Percynow biggerdarting after it, yipping joyfully.
Geoffrey smoked by the entrance.
“Found your replacement?” he smirked.
“Percys the best player. Watch!” Oliver kicked, and Percy bolted after it like a proper striker.
The ball smacked Mrs. Clarksons wellies. She threw up her hands.
“Oh, you lot!” But she smiledthe impromptu matches had become the talk of the block.
Come April, a notice went up: “Community clean-up dayhaul out your junk.” First to go was that old pram. Oliver suggested,
“Lets put up a sign: Percy was found here. Like a memorial.”
Mrs. Cooper snorted.
“Better make a flower bed, with a small plaque. The councils delivering soil anyway.”
By Saturday, the residents had dismantled the pram, built a wooden planter, and planted marigolds. Percy raced around. Geoffrey brought pallets and hammered together a kennel”a garage for our mascot.”
“Keep the rain off,” he said.
In May, Oliver presented Percy at the schools “My Happy Home” show. The pup sat still as Oliver told the tale of rescuing him “from the jaws of civilisation.”
His teacher concluded,
“Children, rememberliving things arent rubbish to be tossed out. Well done, Oliver.”
Applause rang out.
Liam, by the door, grinned.
“Beats hamsters any day.”
That summer, the yard became a havenkittens in boxes, orphaned sparrows, crusts for pigeons. His mum sometimes grumbled,
“Place is turning into a shelter.”
But she smiledOliver had changed. He mopped the stairs now, so Percys paws stayed clean.
By August, Percy had grown into a proper terrier mix, tail aloft, coat gleaming. Oliver trained him daily.
“Sit!”
Percy plopped down.
“Fetch!”
He returned, stick in mouth, tail a proud corkscrew.
Neighbour Sophie filmed them.
“You two are viral! A hundred thousand TikTok views!”
One evening, a bin fire spread to a shed where the estates strays slept. As neighbours scrambled for hoses, Percy tore free, bolted inside, and dragged out a pup by the scruff. He sniffed every cornerno one left. He came back singed, reeking of smoke, but unharmed.
The fire crew arrived fast. A fireman shook Olivers hand.
“Your lads a hero. That cobblers pup wouldnt have made it otherwise.”
The story spread.
By autumn, a new plaque read: “Percy YardleyOur Guardian. Do not harm or feed junk.” The graffiti club had designed it, council-approved.
Mrs. Clarkson and Mrs. Whitmore ran out of gossipevery chat was about Percy.
“Look at that tail wag,” Mrs. Whitmore sighed. “An angel in dog form.”
“That prams long forgotten,” Mrs. Clarkson agreed. “People actually talk now. Kids play outside.”
“Animals teach us. No denying it.”
Come December, snow capped the trees again. For International Animal Day, the local paper featured Oliver, Percy, and the marigold bed. No one recalled the pram now. It was a symbolthat even in the discarded, whole worlds can hide: warm noses, white-socked paws, and second chances.
Oliver put it simply:
“If Id walked past that day, Id still think games and likes mattered most. Now I knowsometimes, all it takes is stopping to look.”
He ruffled Percys fur. The dog gazed up, as if to say: The best stories arent grand. Just a warm kennel, a ball under the bench, crisp winter air smelling of sausagesand the boy who didnt walk by.
