The Man Zorra Remembered

Some beginnings arrive long before we recognise them.

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Same old, same old. Our usual walking route. Zorra and I knew it too well.

You see, she mirrored myself. A stray. A societal reject. A teenage orphan who grew up with no parents.

So it made sense that she relished walking the way I walked.

Our strolls were typical. Run-of-the-mill. The dog and I liked it that way. Zorra was a little Singapore Special stray dog that valued her own space. As with other strays like her, she was skittish; she rarely stopped to acknowledge strangers; she spent a good part of our times at the park trying to give them the runaround.

So leaning into a stranger was the furthest from her typical behaviour. She placed her paws on the man's knees, as if he were an old friend. She sniffed his hand, a little too eagerly. The stranger, an elderly gentleman in his sixties, tousled the top of her head.

She seemed to know him. He seemed to like her. And I didn't know why.

"Looks like she knows who I am," the elderly gentleman chuckled.

Meanwhile, Zorra became more forward than I had ever known her to be. She rubbed against the old man's legs with dogged persistence; highly unusual. Dogs were usually little soldiers of reservation; Zorra was particularly skilled at being restrained.

I told myself that people attracted animals. But still, she didn't want to leave.

On one of these routine evenings, she slowed her paw steps near the same corner. This dog's senses were keen, even if she was already 15 years old; her ears became erect long before anyone appeared round the bend.

The old man turned around the corner. Her tail did a breakdance. Confidently, with the requisite flips.

He offered his customary salutation, with a warm smile ridding the sides of his mouth of wrinkles.

Again, the two made a connection I couldn't unravel. She knew him from before. I clearly missed a note.

The old gentleman looked me over for a moment. Then paused.

A little too long for my liking.

"You know, you look exactly like her." His face looked older. More thoughtful.

"You walk like her too."

"Like who?" I was beyond flabbergasted. "You're talking in riddles. I've had enough of those."

The old man looked me over again. A little too closely.

Still, perhaps he meant someone else.

My equally senior dog simply rubbed against his leg. She hadn't had enough of him.

I couldn't get the old man's words out of my head. I looked like her?

I hadn't known any mother. Or father for that matter. My first knowledge of existence had been the orphanage at the corner of the street.

The same street we walked. That he did too.

My father had been a name mentioned once or twice in passing among the orphanage's staff.

No more than that.

But he watched me with quiet recognition I didn't feel comfortable with.

Because it seemed that we had already met where I couldn't remember.

Zorra sat comfortably beside him as we all sat on a park bench. She seemed to have found someone she could trust.

That she thought I could too.

I watched them as he fed Zorra a piece of bread from his bag. The dog wolfed it in a gulp.

At times, she didn't eat the food I gave her.

I turned to him to ask the question I'd always wanted to ask.

"Well, Zorra, I've got to go. I'll play with you tomorrow."

He got off the bench abruptly and left.

I shook my head.

The answer had not come.

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For Vocal's Something is Beginning Challenge