The Dog on Our Street

A brown dog comes to our street in winter. He is thin and his ear is broken.

Nobody knows his name. The children call him Kahve, because he is the colour of coffee.

My mother puts water in a small bowl. The man in the shop gives him old bread.

In the evening, Kahve sleeps under the stairs. He is quiet there.

One day, a car stops. A man opens the door.

"Is this dog yours?" he asks.

We look at each other. Then my mother says, "He is our street's dog."

The man smiles and drives away. Kahve stays.