This Street

Every street should have a
rascal, and this one did. Oh, 
not the large shambling dog 
down the street whose owners
had the unmitigated gall to 
formally name Rascal, a dog
meek to his very marrow. No,
our rascal was a neat and very
small dog whose aristocratic
lineage earned him the rather
pathetically pompous name of
Bentley, which he obviously
swore to himself he would 
never live up to. This little rascal
was a blithe soul who would not
be put in his place simply because
everywhere was his place. Even
while a pup his caregivers 
hadn't a clue where he might be.
He might and would be impulsively
poking about in the neighbourhood
gardens, provoking the domesticated
ire of the street's lap dogs, one of
which he was not. The only time
he was confined was when his 
humans would set off on a trip
leaving him securely penned in
their house, allowed to go no further
than the mud room, food and drink
set out in abundance and sanitation
be damned. But that rascal was
the talk of the street, an impudent
imp, a furry ball of impetuous
carnival antics. He could leap great
heights in a single bound, scramble
quicker than a chipmunk to whom
he meant no harm, and hold his
own in any dog scrapes. His
friendships on his terms, no one
else's. He gave the street character
with his excitability and enthusiasm.
Seemed he was forever around.
Until, one day, he excited himself
into a heart attack and then the street
became the poorer and its pride
plunged with that rascally Bentley
no longer around to astonish.