Henry was an old bachelor, living quietly with his solitude, never burdened by loneliness. He worked like a carthorse, tirelessly, and loved his job. Perfection was his habit—everything had to be just so. Yet despite meeting plenty of women, he never found the right one.
That July, exhausted, Henry decided to escape the grind and booked a holiday down south. He scrolled online and placed an advert.
A woman replied—a mother of two from a coastal village. Twenty minutes’ walk to the sea, far from tourist traps, with a private room and home-cooked meals in exchange for groceries. Tempting. The satnav guided him smoothly to an old but tidy house. The room was cosy, the hostess kind. A tiny terrier, Matilda, scurried about the garden where fruit ripened, and two children, a boy and girl of nine or ten, busied themselves. The woman, Annie, never pestered him—just asked what to cook and smiled warmly, serving strawberries fresh from the patch.
Henry spent his days at the sea—swimming, clambering over rocks, snapping photos, and messaging old mates. Odd, he thought, that a woman nearing fifty had such young kids. Finally, he asked.
“Annie, are they your grandchildren?”
“No,” she laughed. “Mine. Late blessings. Never married, but wanted children. I’m only forty-eight, after all.”
As they talked, Henry studied her—soft-spoken, gentle, with a smile that reminded him of his late mother. She smelled of strawberries and butter. The homemade wine was rich, the nights cool under starry skies. Neither pretended—they were grown. By day, nothing changed. But at night, Henry crept to her room, then back before dawn. The kids mustn’t wake.
Matilda never barked at him—just watched slyly, as if in on the secret. A good dog, thrifty too. A few spoonfuls of food, yet she guarded the yard faithfully. Soon she joined Henry at the beach, paddling in the waves, shaking off, then darting home ahead of him.
Until one day, she vanished. Henry searched, calling her name, plastering posters. An elderly neighbour muttered about outsiders—holiday renters at the village edge. Henry stormed over, but they’d left an hour prior, heading for the motorway with a small dog. He sped after them.
Eighty miles on, he blocked the road with his car. Two sharp-tongued girls climbed out of a jeep.
“Move it, grandad!” one sneered. “We’ll call the cops!”
“Go ahead,” Henry said. “After you return my dog.”
“She was stray! We rescued her!”
“Liar. She’s family—not yours.”
“Piss off!” the other shrieked. “Or we’ll smash your windows!”
Henry circled the jeep. “Matilda!” A flurry of barks erupted from inside. The girls clawed at him, cursing. He froze—he couldn’t hit them.
A breathless copper arrived, huffing. “Quiet! Whoever the dog chooses keeps her. No papers, no proof.”
The girls cooed, waving sausage. “Here, Buttons! Come to mummy!”
Henry clicked his tongue. “Come on, Matilda.”
The terrier bolted to him, tail wild.
“Done,” the officer wheezed.
“You can’t—”
“Drive off,” he cut in, “or I’ll inspect your tyres, first-aid kit, count every tablet. And run your plates.”
The jeep fled.
Henry drove back, Matilda curled on his lap—warm, velvety fur. A peace he hadn’t felt in years settled over him. The road hummed, the engine purred, the dog drowsed. Yet beneath it, sadness crept in. Soon, he’d return to an empty flat.
A thought flickered: *Turn around. Take her home.* Just clothes to pack, really. He sighed and kept driving.
The last week turned rainy, but Henry still swam. Matilda followed. Nights were stolen; mornings grew heavier. On his last day, sun blazing, he packed, gifted Annie perfume, and left his number.
As he accelerated onto tarmac, a speck blurred in the mirror. Matilda, sprinting. He sped up—she matched him, then faltered, vanishing. Henry braked, hands trembling. A cigarette steadied him until he spotted her—a dusty dot on the road. He ran, praying no car would crush her.
Matilda collapsed into his arms, fur matted, tongue coated in grit. He wiped her clean, offered water, then rang Annie.
“She chased me. I’ll bring her back.”
“Keep her,” Annie said. “I found her dumped outside a shop days before you came.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
So Henry took her.
Months later, at university, he overheard colleagues gossiping.
“Did you hear? The dean remarried—some village woman with kids and a yappy dog!”
“What’s her secret? Love potion?” they giggled, spotting Henry.
“Oh, Professor Carter! Tell us—how *did* she snare you?”
He grinned. “Strongest potion there is.”
“Will she share the recipe?”
“Afraid not.” Chuckling, he headed home—to Annie, the kids, and Matilda.
Lesson learned: some things—dogs, love, second chances—are worth chasing.
