People in the neighbourhood: Homeless with Mira

He has always been part of the neighbourhood. Long before we knew his story, we knew his dog. For our children, walking to school, he wasn’t a "homeless man"—he was simply the owner of the German shephard. He invited us to come closer and pet his dog.  At first, we approached with the typical hesitation of parents, but the dog’s quiet gentleness quickly won us over. She's such a gentle darling: Mira.  Soon, we stopped seeing him as a stranger but as the owner of Mira. We simply said: "Look, Mira is there", when walking along the streets. 

Two years ago, it all changed. He announced us his rental contract ended.  The attic apartment around the corner was no longer his. His administration for part of his foreign retirement money he should get for a time of work abroad, was a mess and the money didn't come.  In a housing market that doesn't care for small incomes, he found himself outside with Mira.  

He moved into a tent in the park around the corner, tucked behind the cold, white buildings of the tax authorities. For a while, the neighbourhood rallied. There was a sense of collective care: bigger tents and strong sleeping bags were donated, and civil servants would leave thermoses of hot coffee out in the mornings. It felt manageable if temporary. But seasons don’t wait for social solutions.

As the winters came and went, the "temporary" became a cycle. He moved from short-term emergency housing to another and then back to the park to get chased again after a while, and eventually to the concrete shade of the sports center during last summer's heatwaves. We tiptoed silently along him while Mira kept an eye on us, when going to the judo or swimming classes. 

This is where the story gets complicated, as real life often does. There is the stubbornness—his refusal to take Beertje's spare water bottle when his own was stolen. And then there is my own hesitation. He once asked for what he truly needed: a place to bathe, a roof for his dog. I thought of my cat, my privacy, my own boundaries, and I said no. I settled for the next best thing: giving him my time. I decided that, at the very least, he deserved to be seen and spoken to as a neighbour, not as problem to look away from.

We are far into the second year now. He has found a "stable" spot—a small, unclaimed thicket of trees behind the park. The community support continues in small gestures: someone washes his blankets; someone else boils dozens of eggs for him.

But the conversations have changed. The bitterness has seeped in, as it naturally would after a year in a tent. The welfare lists are long, the private market is closed to him, and the shelters have a condition he refuses to meet: Give up Mira. To the system, she is a liability. To him, she is likely the only thing keeping him human. He's not going to live without Mira. He and Mira are one unity and they look after each other. 

During the last frost, when I hadn't seen him for a while, I took a detour to check on that patch of trees. Seeing the tent still there, dusted in snow, felt like a weight in my chest. It is deeply uneasy to witness a life stalled in the cold.

Yet, life in the neighbourhood moves on. And as we walk our usual routes, we still see them coming: the man and Mira. They are still here and that sight gives me relief and heaviness each time. 



(disclaimer: as this was a sensitive topic that I found hard to write, I did get a bit of AI help to get my storyline more structured. )