Lately I have read some heart-warming stories about pets. This entry is about mine. Strictly speaking, he could not be counted as my pet, but we had such a great time together as if he were mine.

I grew up with my grandparents. About the time I was born, they adopted a puppy. They named him Peter. Peter and I were said to be about the same age. In my earliest memory Peter was like my shadow. He followed me wherever I went. My parents never worried about me being kidnapped because a loyal knight called Peter was keeping close watch over me. Had you lived in our neighbourhood then, you would have witnessed an amazing scene, where a little girl was shuffling about in a baby walker with a black dog tagging along. Peter not only followed me, but also offered his protection all the time. Should any suspicious stranger attempt to approach me, he would go forward growling.

In time I would have to leave my grandparents behind for school in the city. I still remember the day. When I was boarding the coach, Peter was standing there by the road, like a statue, with a sad expression in his eyes.

The next time I went back to the village, Peter was nowhere to be found. According to Gran, Peter might have been stolen and sold by some bad guys to a restaurant, where my loyal friend might have ended up on someone’s dinner plate. Dog meat was very dear that year.

My gratitude to Peter is immense. Thanks to our bond and his unconditional love, I had a colourful safe childhood.