“Do not leave me in the cold, please?”
The old man is startled. Nobody’s around. Of late, his head, full of noise.
He shrugs.
Time to go home!

Dark mantle with patches of grey, over the city.
The Snow Cap Park, Mountainberry Road, Brampton—bleak expanse.
Night arrives early in the wintry Canada with attendant solitude.

4.55 pm.
Gloom soon develops into an icy night.
The windows glow, red eyes of giants.
Silvery grass and grounds shimmer in the failing light.

The old man tightens the overcoat, pulls down the cap, straps on red gloves—a three-minute drill in safety.
“Do not leave me, grandpa,” the soft voice pleads.
Like a kid lost in the dark woods.

Dusk turns everything into shadowy figures.
“Take me home, please!” Same child-like pleading.
Nothing.

“I am HERE!”
Grandpa glances at the bench.
“Inside the pocket-book.”

There!
A pug with round eyes looks back from the glossy cover.
Grandpa bends down painfully, picks up the gift sent by a mysterious force.

As the book gets unwrapped, the squat figure leaps out of its pages, a grown-up dog.
A low, soft voice says, “Thanks grandpa for saving me.”

Spooked!

“I am Lo-sze. Your new companion.” The old man looks down at the wrinkly face and wriggling tail.
“Lo-sze! This is unreal!”

“No, sir!” Lo-sze reassures in human voice. “I am hundred percent real being.”
“How can it be?”
“Magic,” the pug says. “The moment the book opens, I become real.”
Grandpa is not convinced.
It is fiction. How can it be real?
He begins walking.

“Take me home, Grandpa.”
“Home?!” asks the old man, surprised by the request from a stray. “My home?”
“Yeah! Your home!”
The old man is undecided.
“I am coming anyway.”
No way out.
Finally, he nods: “Come on.”
The pug wriggles his tail again, growls and starts walking with the human host.
“One more request,” Lo-sez says.
“What now?”
“Please take the book with you.”
“Why?”
“My original home. Wherever it travels, I follow.”
“A book is your home?”
“Yes, and created by Nyx, an orphan raised in foster homes. For me and other characters in it.”
Grandpa silently nods.
“Nyx believed books are best gifts, not to be discarded. Meant to be read near the fireplaces.”
“Most homes do not have fireplaces these days.”
“Any corner will do. I travelled with young commuters on crowded trains and buses.”
The old man is impressed by the tale of an itinerant pug.
“Tell me more about Nyx.”
“She is full of empathy. Love. Kindness.”
“What else does she do?”
“She spins tales.”
“We need stories.”
“Yes, stories for kids and adults alike.”
“Where is she now?”
“Among the stars.”
“What?” Granpa is jolted. Stops and resumes slowly on the dark path as flurries start.
“She died a few weeks ago.” The pug sounds sad, voice trailing in the cold gloom.
The wind jabs with icy fingers.
Somewhere, far-off, a dog barks in a backyard.
A siren can be heard in the background.
“Sorry to hear that. So sad.”
“A talented graphic artist with great imagination. She created a pug who can talk to all ages.”
“True!”
“A friend on lonely nights, this four-legged creature, straight from the pages of Bringing Home a Friend.”

Friends! Most missed in a room full of voices.

“This book is a travelling book.” Lo-sze explains.
“What is that?”
“A book left in a public place.”
The old man is intrigued.
“Book in a public place for collection? Free?”
“Free! For a willing reader. Once finished, the book is left in any location accessible to the public.”
“To be read by others, in a chain?”
“Yeah.”

The old man takes time to digest this. “Wonderful. A good practice in a commercial culture where nothing comes free.”
The pug says, “That is the idea. Gratis. To be consumed and circulated further. Best thing, you need not pay for brief ownership of the book.”
“Like it. Free books to be shared within the community.”
The grandpa is effusive for this gesture of philanthropy by a young author: “Such nobility!”
Spread the light!

“How long have you been there, little guy? In the cold?”
“Six days and nights. Alone in the ice and rain. Nights were frightening. Overcast skies. Nobody in evidence.
I shivered inside the jacket of the book.”
“So long?” Grandpa felt sorry.
“Yeah. Waited to be picked up and hugged in a park full of people. Nobody cared.”
“Sorry to hear this!”
“I never lost hope.”
Grandpa nods: “One must never.”
“Nyx believed that books tend to find their own sets of readers.”
“Did you find the right reader, finally?”
The pug says, “You?”
“Me!! I do not read anymore.”
Grandpa shares honestly with new friends. “Once I read to my kids. Long ago.”
“Nyx said her story book is meant for solitary souls.”
“Is it?”
“I could see you were sad.”
“How did you do that?”
“You talked of diabetes and BP, dishes made by your wife, missing pals and relatives, sitting there on that bench, cane in hand, talking to self, in soft tones, while children played around.”

The old man is clearly embarrassed.

“I could not help listening, sitting next to you inside that book, a book with a heart.”
The grandpa stops and says kindly, “No worries, friend. Somebody there to hear you out in the surrounding isolation.”
The pug barks in happiness. “I am here now, Pa, as your pet son.”
The old man beams a Thank you, his eyes moist by the warmth and joy of this selfless creature whose pedigree “goes back to centuries, to Chinese royal courts. From there to Europe, to the rest of the world.”
“A true friend to the lonely hearts!”

A woman appears.
The pug leaps back into the book.
Once away, he reappears, as the old man clutches the book.
“This way!”
The woman looks back.
“Why do people talk to themselves in old age?”