On duty, unless someone needs a cuddle.
On Duty
The brass players had found their entrance. Everyone on the street knew it.
Under the music hall’s little porch, the Doberman watched a leaf turn over in the gutter. Behind him, the band tried the same few bars again. He had been stationed by the door since two o’clock, admitting musicians, pointing visitors toward the noticeboard, and keeping instrument cases out of the entrance.
The dormouse arrived carrying a triangle wrapped in blue cloth.
She stopped at the bottom step and looked up at the rehearsal notice.
“First afternoon?” he asked.
She nodded.
“You’re in the right place.”
She climbed the steps, holding the bundle against her coat. As she reached the door, a cymbal sounded inside. She stopped so suddenly that one corner of the cloth slipped loose.
The Open Door
The Doberman pressed the handle and held the door open for her.
The music came out beneath the porch roof. The dormouse took a step back.
“There’s room,” he said, moving forward to show her the way around him.
She backed toward the steps again. He stopped. His chest filled most of the space in front of her; beyond him, the open doorway carried another burst of brass.
He let the door close gently, then moved to the far side of the porch.
The dormouse stayed where she was. She pulled the blue cloth over the triangle’s bare corner.
“Is it the music?” he asked.
“It wasn’t that loud at home.”
“No,” he said. “I expect it wasn’t.”
Through the closed door came the muffled sound of someone counting. The band began again.
“Would you like to wait here?”
She looked at the clear steps, then at the dry boards beneath the porch roof.
“For a little bit.”
A Place Beside Him
The Doberman lowered himself along the wall, leaving the path between the steps and the door open. He rested his chin on his forepaws. From there, he could still see anyone arriving from the street.
For a while, the dormouse stood with her bundle. Then she came across the porch.
“Can I sit there?”
He shifted one paw to make room beside his foreleg.
She sat down. Her shoulder just touched him. When he stayed still, she leaned a little farther, resting her cheek against his short, warm fur.
Inside, the brass stumbled over the same entrance.
The dormouse held her triangle in her lap. After a moment, she loosened the cloth and smoothed it beneath the metal corners.
“I know where mine goes,” she said.
The Doberman lifted his chin slightly.
“Have they reached it yet?”
“No. It’s after this bit.”
They listened. Her paw moved once against the cloth, following a beat he could not quite pick out.
“Nearly,” she whispered.
The music stopped.
She looked toward the door, then put her paw down again.
After the Music Stops
Chairs scraped inside. Someone asked for the window to be opened.
The dormouse sat up.
“I think I’d like to go in now.”
The Doberman waited while she wrapped the cloth loosely around the triangle. Once she was standing clear, he rose and opened the door a little.
“Would you like me to come in with you?”
“Just to the first chair.”
He held the door while she crossed the threshold, then followed her to an empty chair beside the entrance. She climbed onto it and laid the cloth across her knees.
At the front, the conductor looked over.
“Triangle? Welcome. We’re finding the place just before you come in.”
The dormouse uncovered her instrument.
The Doberman settled beside the wall near her chair, where he could watch the door. She glanced down at him, then turned toward the conductor.
“Flutes first,” the conductor said. “The rest of you, wait.”
This time, when the music reached her, the dormouse lifted her little metal beater.
The Doberman stayed beside the chair until he heard the clear, small note.
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