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The love I had with Timmy, begins with the death of my husband.

I had become the icy queen, and I thought my heart had long been dead the very day i was robbed of my husband by his terminal illness.

At the initial stage of my widowhood, my family and friends would drop by to check on me, to see that I am doing well, whenever they could. Their kindness was regarded as sympathy. Sympathy was not what a bitter old widow like me needed. It made me more depressed and the sorry look everyone had in their eyes, only pinned me down, and made me weak. It made me dive into the throes of my loneliness even deeper.

Sympathy was not what I needed, neither was weakness.

I was not at all accommodating and absolutely resistent to kindness. They began to leave me alone. I thought I would be able to get along with life better this way.

All but one, had failed to make my heart pumped with life and energy again.

One morning, I caught sight of a white figure, under my picnic table. My eyes squinted, it was a dog. What is he doing there? I got curious. Putting on my spectacles, I opened the door as queitly as I could.

Alas, the squeaking sound of my door, was too loud for the ears of a dog. He got up in a frantic and hobbled away. Yes, he hobbled. That was when I noticed he was handicapped. One of his back legs was missing.

I thought that was the first and last time I would see him. However, the next morning, he was there again, at the same spot. This time, I did not attempt to get closer to him. Instead, I watched him from my house. I noticed that he is not a mongrel as I had thought. He is infact, a Jack Russell. He is not entirely white, he has a brown patch at the back of his body, near to his tail. In fact, he is quite a beauty.

As to what this 3 legged beauty is doing there? I supposed he was just getting cozy, under my picnic table, which provided sufficient shelter for him.

I thought I should try to look for something edible for the poor fella, although my kitchen has been left unattended for months. Fortunately, there was still a few pieces of wheat biscuits.

Having experienced and failed in my first attempt to make friends with him, I was cautious this time. I opened the door slowly, and leaving it slightly ajar, I placed the biscuits on the floor.

He tilted his head, and sniffled. Yes, he smelt food. He crept towards my door, smelt the biscuits, grabbed a piece and hobbled back. As he munched, I felt a sense of triumph. I remained in the house, and decided to just stay put and watched.

He

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