She wandered, made fleeting friendships with those who tried to help her but wearied of her ungrateful and uncoopreative response. At last she found herself in the company of a kind of semi-nomadic people of San Julian . By now she had reached the fullness of womanhood approaching her middle years. She renamed herself Grizelda and fancied herself a gypsy among gypsies. Grizelda set about transforming her outward appearance to reflect her new identity: that of the free-spirited street dweller. She teased out her long hair into a dark cloud bound back by colorful scarves, shadowed her eyes with black kohl. Her movements were accompanied by the faint tinkling of her metal jewelry and her skirts swirled around her bare ankles.

She danced on the streets of the conventional world she had left behind by day needing no music, moving to her own intricate, internal rhythms. Those who watched were often beguiled enough to give her coins for her performance. She danced seductively by night among the tents and handcarts of her people, celebrating her new life wih them, sharing wine, warmth and, at last, ways to feelings of happiness.

But the life she celebrated did not treat her well. Her hair thinned and grew lank, her skin took on a texture as though carved from a fibrous vegetable grown dry and yellowed. Her eyes lost focus and brightened as if she burned from a deadly fever. She moved falteringly at the edges of her people who began to mock and insult her.

As is the way with groups who notice a weak member they preyed upon her, stealing first her handcart with most of her posessions and then her tent. Grizelda was left with a thin blanket and two sofa cushions salvaged from furniture left on a curbside for trash pick-up. She must choose between staying at the foot of a brick wall on the sidewalk where a certain order was maintained by cruising patrol cars or hiding her few comforts in a tangle of weeds and bushes off the street.

She chose the latter and dragged her possessions with much effort to her new place of refuge then went off to search a restaurant dumpster for food. It was here she discovered the five pups, one of which would again change her life.

https://www.suzannesteinphoto.com/Skid-Row/

I'll admit, I much prefer this second extract to the first. We're finally getting to the meat of the story and you seem to have hit a richer vein of writing. It reads smoothly and you're obviously in full control. But alarm bells began to ring when I read the closing sentence. I hope it's not going to end up being a shaggy dog story (much as I love dogs).

H3K

Thank you Hilwalker for the read and thoughtful comments. I too hope it won't end up a shaggy dog story :) My father claimed mastery of that genre telling long horrifying stories of pain, war, injury, ending with such punch lines aa "only when I laugh"