a three legged dog walks down george street. weaving through legs, avoiding the curve that edges the road, passing mcdonalds, across a street, looking with his dirty brown muzzle of a face each way before crossing in his hop skip of a trot. down towards the green grocer and his cart, where, crawling beneath it patiently, he waits for a piece of fruit to be dropped with a wink from the owner.

'always 'round this time, aren't you,' the voice says. 'should jus' give you a name.'

the dog has a name. when he first arrived in sydney, two years ago, he'd constantly tell men and women who stumbled out of the three wise monkeys's pub in the early hours of the morning: he would sit on the sidewalk and hold his head proudly, and speak. but his audience would either scream in drunken laughter or throw up in the gutter, so now he says nothing.

but if he was asked instead of being given an apple, he'd say that his name was winston.