It was a cold night, but the sky was clear and starry.

Rusty’s was telling us about Cob and his mischief’s when his ears suddenly twitched and stood. His nose flared and he looked, first to the left, then back at us.

The cat’s here, too. He announced.

I didn’t see him. 

He’s sitting at the wall. Rusty told me. Under the tree, he hinted when I couldn’t find the cat. Yes, I saw him. My tail wiggled, but the bark didn’t come out of my throat and I deflated back to the grassy ground.

The cat was lazing atop the boundary wall separating the field from the streets and homes. His eyes were fixed at us and his tail was down; he was mourning too.

Rusty might have joints that croak like slimy frogs on a rainy day, his ears and nose were still the sharpest among us four of the pack. A Pack we were, not of four but five until just a day ago when Cob, the oldest among us besides Rusty, was hit by a roaring beast that the hu-mans ride.

He didn’t survive. It was heartbreaking to see him go like that. To think he would succumb to the very thing he consistently warned us about.

It was a quick death. Rusty had told us. I wish he hadn’t died at all.

We were gathered at Cobs grave, something an old homeowner had dug for him, not out of love but in order to get rid of the rotten stench coming from his body.

Cob 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.

Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who missed him. Another group of free dogs, ones from the bread factory, came to the park at midnight. It was their territory on the other side of the park while this side belonged to us, to Cob, but he was dead.

Ginger, a lean, long-faced female with ginger hair, carefully shifted her weight trying not to strain the pups growing in her belly. She pulled her legs close to her chest, ready to get up if necessary. She was the only female of our group and Cobs mate.

Rusty stood up, slow, and patient. I was confident something amiss was bound to happen.

Dimple was the first one up and on his haunches —ready to launch at the first sign of mischief; Rusty instead was slow and patient.

None of us liked Bread and his companions, but Dimple hated them with fervor and he had a good reason. They were the reason behind his missing right ear and the scar near his hip. He was the object of their bullying before Cob took him under his leadership. Rusty once told me that if it wasn’t for Cob, Dimple would have eventually bitten a hu-man, and that would have been the end of him.

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 ear. He was blazing, ready to shoot at the group if they dared come any closer. My blood boiled, too, but Ginger shook her head at me and I followed.

The last I had seen him so angry was when he and Cob had contended over Ginger against Pits and Dark’s crew of four, from the shopping district of six blocks away. However, even then his bark had contained more playfulness than bite. This time, however, was different. I knew Dimple would be at their throats if they so much as growled.

Let them be, Dimple. Rusty tried to coax him. He raised a paw to nudge Dimple, which made me huddle up with anxiousness, but he decided against it and I released the breath I was holding. The nudge would have simply startled the black dog and set him off. There was 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 was a big no-no for a group of strays. Hu-mans anger scared the even the best of us.

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Rusty couldn’t pacify Dimple, however, for the lanky black dog wasn’t listening.

Stop, Dimple! Rusty barked, almost howled, when Dimple tried to rush away. His voice made my ears ring and itch. His body was taut with such aggression and tension it screamed at me of danger. Oh, how I cowered away from him whining, not realizing he wasn’t focused upon me.

Dimple not only stopped growling but froze where he stood 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.

 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 him fold his paws under his body and lay his face flat on the ground, but longing.

Dealt with Dimply, Rusty turned toward Bread and his group of four.

What do you want? He asked, his whiskers flaring from anger.

We want no trouble. Bread let out. Tonight, we come in peace.

Rusty stared at him for a long minute before —much to Dimple’s irritation and Ginger’s relief— telling Bread to keep his distance,. Bread nodded and led his group to a place where the grass was still young and shirt and camped there for the time being. We had no further interaction with them, but their presence alone had a definite effect on us.

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 Cob 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 in a while 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.

I would have asked him if he was alive.

The following minutes passed so slowly they felt like hours. 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.

We remembered Cob in our own way as the night spun darker and colder. Bread and his group were the first to leave. They did it so silently. Then the cat meowed, letting us know he was also leaving. 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. He slowly swayed away onto the street which shone golden under the lamplight. He stopped at the corner bend, turned back for a look before he also went off my sight. Neither of us made a comment.

When I left Dimple was yet to move from his place, but the cold had become uncomfortable for my not even a 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.

Back in the brick home that Kanti had created for me, I worried myself to sleep hugging the soft plush toy Kanti had left me. I believed that nothing had changed, that the four of us were still a pack, but also hoped that Kanti would return soon. I missed them dearly, both of them.