Dear Diary,
Every morning I see the same elderly lady in the communal garden of our council block. Shes about eighty, always dressed neatly and with care. I moved into the block at the end of last autumn, and on my way to work I would pass her. Sometimes shed sit on the bench beneath the towering lime tree, other times shed shuffle slowly, leaning on her wooden cane.
After a while we began to exchange greetings. Id pause briefly to ask after Mabel Harpers health and wish her a good day. She always returned a warm smile and thanked me politely.
In late December a new resident showed up in the courtyard: a dog. He looked young, being quite small, but no one knew where hed come from. He was a scruffy, dirty creature with a tangled coat and no clear breed. When Mabel tossed him a piece of sausage, his fate was sealed; from that moment he made the courtyard his home. He probably wouldnt have survived elsewhere given how miserable he looked.
Most of the tenants werent thrilled with his presence. Many tried to shoo him away, shouting Go on, get out of here! whenever he approached, looking at them with pleading eyes, silently begging for food. Yet he sometimes managed to get a crumbsomeone would fling a piece of bread his way, another would toss a small bone. Mabel also gave him stale biscuits or crusty bread, speaking gently while rubbing his head and calling him Patch.
When the snow had almost melted in early spring, I met Mabel one morning in the garden. She told me she would be leaving that evening with her granddaughter to the countryside and would stay there until autumn. Possibly even until the end of autumn, she added. We have a woodburning stove there, and it stays warm by it even on the coldest nights. She asked me to promise a visit.
In late August I finally took the plunge and went to see Mabel. I bought her a small presentten pounds worth of tea biscuitsand caught the local bus to the village where she was staying. When I arrived, I found her sitting on the verandah, peeling large red apples. Lying on the wooden step beside her, a dog rested peacefully.
Patch, come on, greet our guest! the old lady called. The dog leapt up, wagging his fluffy tail, and ran toward me. He was a magnificent animal now, his coat glossy and wavy, catching the sunlight.
Mrs. Mabel, is this really the same scruffy Patch from our courtyard? I asked, astonished.
Yes, thats him! Hes turned into a proper beauty! she replied with a smile. Come in, lets have a cup of tea. Tell me everything about the town!
We spent a long while at the kitchen table, sipping cherryflavoured tea and chatting. After his porridge, Patch curled up by the warm stove, sighing softly in his sleepas if dreaming of something. Outside, a gentle breeze made the apple trees sway, and ripe red apples drifted down onto the grass.
Tonight Im back in the city, but the memory of that sunny garden stays with me. Ive learned that a little kindness, even to the most unkempt creature, can blossom into unexpected beauty and remind us that warmth is found not just in stoves, but in simple acts of compassion.
