Every evening after work I walked the same quiet road home. There were a few trees, old fences and the kind of silence that softened with the evening light. And just before the last turn, I always saw him.
A skinny little stray with scruffy fur and watchful eyes. He never came too close but his tail would give the smallest wag whenever I looked his way. If I paused, he perked up. If I spoke, his tail tapped against the dirt. I started carrying food with me. A piece of bread, some rice, sometimes a boiled egg. Every day he waited. And every day I stopped.
I began to call him Bruno in my heart. It took a week before he let me rest my hand on his head. His ribs showed, his fur was tangled and he jumped back if I moved too quickly. I often wondered what kind of life he had lived to make him so cautious yet still hopeful.
One rainy evening he was not there. I waited but he never came. The next day, still no Bruno. On the third day I heard a faint cry behind a dumpster. There he was, soaked, trembling and hurt with a wound on his leg. I did not think twice. I carried him home.
The vet said he would recover. He was weak and afraid but he was a fighter.
That was six months ago. Today Bruno runs in the yard, sleeps at the foot of my bed and greets me at the door with the happiest tail. He waited for me every day. And when he needed me most, I was there for him too.