Bins goes out for a walk before I’m awake. He doesn’t always take the house key. So when I hear a knock at 8.30 this morning, I assume it’s him. I call out, “Coming!” as I throw off the bed sheet and force myself up, still in my Anokhi jammies. But an unfamiliar voice answers me. “Hi. My name’s Daniel ...”

I look through the peep-hole. Sure enough, an unknown person is standing there. Tall guy, dazzlingly handsome. Except for his conspicuous backpack, he looks like he’s posing for a men’s cologne commercial. “Could you wait a second?” I yodel, as I throw on a blouse and open the door. Daniel stands a respectful distance away, as he begins, “So sorry to disturb you but ...”

Peeking out of his backpack is a small furry face. A terrier. “I’m working at Dunkin Donuts,” says Daniel, “but they won’t let me keep my little dog nearby. I mean, there’s no-one to look after her at home and I ...” He seems about to burst into tears. “So I was wondering: could I keep her in the backyard of this building? With food and water? Just for the morning?” He then goes on to tell me that his boyfriend’s mother has thrown him out of the house. He’s temporarily homeless.

All the while he’s talking, the only thing I register is his thick, medium brown hair, Greek-statue profile, caramel brown skin colour and tight, neat body. If I had to take a guess at his ethnicity, I would say: Mediterranean with a dash of Jalapeño. Even as these thoughts flit through my head, I want to slap myself on the wrists for this shameless display of racial and gender profiling. Of course it’s all just in my head. And then again, not really. Right?

I say, “That’s fine by me but there are six other residents in this building. I’d like to ask at least the other two on this floor —” Jiggs, the Indian pizza guy and his girlfriend DingDong “— for their opinion.” But they’re out. So I tell him to go ahead and leave his dog in the backyard for the time being. He thanks me and leaves.

Half an hour later, when Bins returns, I narrate the whole story to him. He stops me as soon as he hears about the dog. “Wah. OF COURSE she can stay! The backyard exists only so that little dogs can be comfortable while their Papa works at Dunkin!” So we go out to check on the dog. She’s so small, and the grass in the backyard so high, that it takes a minute to find her. “Awww!” says Bins, melting right away, “SO SWEET. Jiggs and DingDong won’t mind. They can’t! She’s too cute.”

We step into Dunkin Donuts to inform Daniel that all is well. He’s not behind the counter, so we leave word to say it’s fine about the dog. As we’re going out, there’s Daniel, with dog. “My neighbour called to say he’ll look after her,” he tells us, all lit up with relief. “Thank you so much for helping.” Bins has grabbed the dog and is getting his life’s quota of grateful licks. “Hug?” Daniel asks me. “Any time,” I say.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere in this weekly column

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