Felix
Jenny was studying at university and, like most students, worked part-time, mostly night shifts. Her mother couldn’t support her financially, and surviving on just a student loan in a big city was impossible.
After her summer exams, she took a break and spent three weeks with her mum. She returned well-rested, loaded with homegrown veggies and jars of jam carefully packed by her mother.
Stepping off the bus at the station square, the bag felt twice as heavy after the long journey. She dragged herself to the bus stop and sighed with relief as she set it down on the bench.
Going back to the city felt lighthearted. Her mum’s place was lovely, but Jenny had lived alone for two years now, used to her own space. She missed the bustling city, her friends. Once she started working, she’d managed to rent a tiny flat and leave student halls behind.
The flat was small, in the suburbs, but affordable. The windows overlooked an overgrown wasteland, with a dense forest beyond. No lights disturbed the darkness at night, but mornings flooded the flat with sunshine. And in winter, the snow on the wasteland made everything glow, even after dark.
A whimper caught her attention. Jenny peered under the bench and saw a sharp brown snout. Big, round, dark eyes stared back, full of fear. Only then did she notice the lead tying the dog to the bench. Crouching down, she reached carefully, but the dachshund flinched, trembling violently.
“It’s alright. Come here.” She gently tugged the lead.
Reluctantly, whining, the dog crept out, ready to bolt back under at any moment. But Jenny held firm.
The dachshund panted heavily, tongue lolling. August was unusually hot—no wonder it hid in the shade. Jenny guessed it was thirsty. A kiosk nearby sold drinks and snacks.
“Stay here,” she whispered, then headed over.
“A small bottle of water, please,” she asked the indifferent shopkeeper. “Do you have an empty tin can?”
“How about a paper cup?” the woman smirked.
“No, a dog can’t drink from that. There’s a dachshund tied to the bench—do you know how long it’s been there?”
The woman squinted, sighed.
“People can be cruel. I opened at eight. Saw a bloke pull up in a posh car, tie the dog there, and drive off. Never came back. Here—it’s dirty, but it’ll do.” She handed over a used sardine tin.
Jenny paid—twice the usual price—rinsed the tin, filled it with water, and set it before the dog, now cowering again.
“Drink. It’s okay.”
Encouraged by her voice, the dachshund sniffed, then lapped noisily. Jenny refilled the tin.
“What do I do with you? Strays could tear you apart. Or worse…” She shuddered. “Come with me. You’ve got no choice.”
She left her number at the kiosk in case the owner turned up, then untied the stubborn dog and dragged it onto the bus, paying for two. The driver and passengers didn’t mind—the dog stayed quiet on her lap.
At home, it cowered in the hallway, sniffing cautiously. Jenny made a bed from a folded blanket. The dachshund flopped onto it, watching her with those big, dark eyes.
“What should I call you?” She listed names aloud. “No? How about Felix?”
The dog yapped.
“Felix it is.” Another yap. “You understand? Why would anyone leave you?”
That night, she heard claws clicking on laminate. Felix emerged, exploring, but darted back to his spot when she stirred. Within days, he’d settled, whining excitedly when she came home.
The yard was packed with cars, so they walked on the wasteland. Once away from roads, Jenny let him off the lead. She worried he’d run, but he always returned when called. She marveled at how he dashed through tall grass on those stubby legs.
September came—dry, warm—and lectures resumed. Jenny worked nights again. Felix spent most days alone but greeted her wildly. She couldn’t imagine life without him.
One Sunday morning, they walked the wasteland. Felix circled her, then bolted toward the woods. She followed, calling, but the grass tangled her legs. She stopped.
“Felix! Home!”
Silence.
Maybe he’d found a burrow. Then—a yelp, abruptly cut off. Fear shot through her. She sprinted toward the sound. The woods were thinner than they looked. Through the trees, she spotted a clearing—three lads crouching over something.
At her voice, they stood. And she saw Felix—impaled by a sharpened stick. Blood pooled beneath him.
The tallest yanked the stick free. Felix whimpered, bleeding heavily. The lad stepped forward, brandishing it. His eyes—cold, empty—locked onto hers.
Jenny turned and ran. Grass snagged her ankles. Footsteps pounded behind her. She reached the road, lungs burning.
A silver car stopped. A man jumped out, helping her up. “Who attacked you?”
“Three… four lads. They—they killed Felix.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“My dog. He’s bleeding out—please!”
Relieved it wasn’t a person, the man hesitated. “Stay here.” He flagged down another car, and they rushed toward the woods.
Jenny sat on the kerb, crying. An eternity later, they returned—one carrying a bloodied bundle.
“He’s alive. Get in—vet, now.”
Felix died on the way.
Jenny couldn’t bring herself to move his things. Nights, she woke to imaginary clicks of claws. Coming home, she paused, hoping for his excited whine. Only silence.
Rain replaced warmth. One evening, she bumped into a lad outside a shop—recognized those dead eyes. He bolted. A screech of brakes—he lay crumpled on the road.
The driver swore he’d jumped out. Police arrived. One officer approached—the same man who’d carried Felix.
“You again?”
“It was him,” she whispered.
Two weeks later, her buzzer rang incessantly. She opened the door—a man with a squirming bag.
“Sorry for waking you.” He handed it over. “No one to watch her.”
Inside—a tiny dachshund, trembling.
“I thought a girl would be better. Fiona.”
Jenny hugged her, laughing as Fiona licked her chin.
“Glad you kept it,” the man nodded at Felix’s bed.
“Couldn’t part with it.” She looked up. “I don’t even know your name.”
“James.”
Fiona was nothing like Felix—stubborn, shoe-chewing, refusing to sleep anywhere but Jenny’s bed. Walks were strictly on-lead now. Sometimes, James drove them to parks where Fiona buried herself in leaves, ears flying, turning even James—usually so serious—into a laughing, chasing mess. The wasteland stayed quiet, but the park echoed with joy.
