Pavoli, an impassioned temperate mutt, stood steady near Yasil, the youngest son of Chamal, the local basket weaver. The dog's head, brown and hued with a white streak from crown to snout, stood rigidly in proximity - its milky bulk restrained fixedly to a post by the door of the house. Both Yasil and his enamored mascot awaited their afternoon meal. Food stuff packed in plastic bags sat nearby: a bunch of bananas, some potatoes, and tangerines fresh from the market.
Yasil sat rested from the morning chores. His arms atop a makeshift wooden table made for him by his father Chamal. A white-washed plant shelf, empty of pots, was bolted securely against a stone wall. A cool wind would, at times, sweep across the cluttered alley way leading to Yasil's passage; streaming a chill across his porch. Yasil's mother, Victorina, worked evenings as a handmaiden for a couple of opulent homes in the outskirts of town. It was only when she completed her nightly labors and returned home that Yasil closed his tired eyes to sleep. His dreams always consisted of soaring and looping a blue firmament, high with cotton clouds, as a pilot for the militia.
