Dearest Timmy,
I know that dogs can't read but I still am writing a letter to you. How else will I pour out my feelings now that you are not here anymore? I will never again see you sprinting to welcome me home at the end of a busy day, wagging your tail and greeting me with your deep throaty woof-woofs.
I still remember the first time you turned up at my street. Emaciated, with a broken spirit and heart, wearing a battered collar chain. No one knew where you came from. One of my neighbours predicted that maybe the family who owned you had deserted you when they moved to a new city. Another neighbour said you wouldn't last longer as you looked too old and frail. My neighbours, the proud owners of bourgeoisie bungalows thought you were an unwanted burden and chased you away. (to be continued...)

- Indhumathi Nagarajan