Waiting at the Door *By Barbara J. Crocker*
  
      My grandmother became a widow in 1970. Shortly after that, we went to the animal shelter to pick out a puppy to keep her company. Grandma decided on a little terrier that had a reddish-brown spot above each eye. Because of these spots, the dog was promptly named Penny.

Grandma and Penny quickly became very attached to each other, but that attachment GREw much stronger about three years later when Grandma had a stroke. Grandma could no longer work, so when she came home from the hospital, she and Penny were constant companions.

After her stroke, it became a real problem for Grandma to let Penny in and out because the door was at the bottom of a flight of stairs. So a mechanism using a rope and pulley was installed from the back door to a handle at the top of the stairs. Grandma just had to pull the handle to open and close the door. If the store was out of Penny''s favorite dog food, Grandma would make one of us cook Penny browned beef with diced potatoes in it. I can remember teasing my grandmother that she loved that dog better than she loved her family.

     ‘No, Ticki, you wouldn’t,’ she said, and surprised him by the range of her sad spasmodic understanding. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘there’s nobody to save for.’

     He said gently, ‘I’ll try and work something out You know if it’s possible I’d do anything for you - anything.’

     ‘This isn’t just two in the morning comfort, Ticki, is it? You will do something?’

     ‘Yes, dear. I’ll manage somehow.’ He was surprised how quickly she went to sleep: she was like a tired carrier who has slipped his load. She was asleep before he had finished his sentence, clutching one of his fingers like a child, breathing as easily. the load lay beside him now, and he prepared to lift it.

AT eight in the morning on his way to the jetty Scobie called at the bank. The manager’s office was shaded and cool: a glass of iced water stood on top of a safe. ‘Good morning, Robin-son.’

     Robinson was tall and hollow-chested and bitter because he hadn’t been posted to Nigeria. He said, ‘When will this filthy weather break? The rains are late.’

     ‘they’ve started in the Protectorate.’

     ‘In Nigeria,’ Robinson said, ‘one always knew where one was. What can I do for you, Scobie?’

     ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

     ‘Of course. I never sit down before ten myself. Standing up keeps the digestion in order.’ He rambled restlessly across his office on legs like stilts: he took a sip of the iced water with distaste as though it were Medicine. On his desk Scobie saw a book called Diseases of the Urinary Tract open at a coloured illustration. ‘What can I do for you?’ Robinson repeated.

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