It was obviously an old dog, exhausted from the running he had just done.
He had black, short hair.
Two small brown flames, at the level of the eyebrows, matched spots of the same color at the bottom of the legs.
The pensioner crouched down with a grimace.
His knees gave way.
He flattered the frightened beast.
The animal did not have a collar.
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Who are you running from like that, huh?
He looked around.
No pursuers on the horizon.
Caressing the animal's eyes, he realized that the one on the left was covered with dead tissue, just like the eye of a shark on a fishmonger's stall.
If the dog had rushed at the old man (he had knocked the jacket off his arm), it was because he had not seen him.
He remembered an anecdote he had once read.
Arcturus,
by Kazakov.
Apart from himself, he gave this name to the dog.
He picked up his jacket.
Dusted him.
Sighted a grocery store and remembered that he had left his rickety home to buy something...
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