“Barney,” William called out as he leapt from the car and hurried towards the dog lying by the roadside. But Barney didn’t stir or wag his tail. The dreadful truth struck William like a blow—the old dog was gone. “How will I tell Mother?” he thought, bending over Barney’s still body, hot tears spilling onto the grizzled muzzle.
From the start, Margaret Whitmore’s faithful hound had taken a dislike to her daughter-in-law, Emily. At their very first meeting, he had growled low in his throat whenever she passed, tail thumping uneasily against the porch boards. Emily, for her part, feared him—and quietly despised him.
“Useless old brute,” she muttered once, glaring at him. “If it were up to me, he’d have been put down years ago!”
“Now, Em, don’t say such things,” William chided. “Perhaps it’s your perfume or the click of your heels that bothers him. He’s set in his ways, like all old creatures.”
Margaret said nothing, but her disapproving gaze spoke volumes. If that flighty girl knew the truth about Barney, she’d think twice. He’d done more good in his life than she ever would.
Margaret had always been careful not to meddle in her son’s affairs. Even when he introduced her to Emily, she held her tongue, though the girl’s polished manners rang false. Her smiles never reached her eyes. When William asked, “Mother, isn’t she lovely?” Margaret only replied, “You’re the one marrying her. So long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters.” Then she hugged him tightly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
After the wedding, the young couple moved into Emily’s flat in London, left to her by an aunt. Visits to the countryside grew rare—Emily disliked the rustic life, and William hated to quarrel. But that summer, she announced a sudden whim for a rural retreat.
“I read that ecotourism is splendid for one’s health—and nerves! City living is nothing but stress,” she declared, packing her cases. “And it’s frightfully fashionable—though terribly expensive. So I thought of your mother’s cottage.”
William was overjoyed. If playing the ecotourist meant going home, he’d gladly oblige.
Margaret welcomed them with open arms. “At last! You’ll have a proper rest here—better than any of your fancy holidays abroad.”
Emily arched a brow. “I wouldn’t go that far.” Then, with a false brightness: “Do you keep livestock? Proper rural immersion is essential.”
Margaret blinked. “Just Barney and a few hens. Had a goat once—bless her, she passed last winter.”
Emily’s lip curled as she eyed the old dog dozing on the sun-warmed porch. “I meant useful animals. Not that pensioner of a mutt. Surprised he’s still kicking, honestly.”
Margaret’s voice tightened. “Well, there’s the garden—plenty of work there if you’re keen to ‘immerse’ yourself.”
“We’ll start tomorrow,” William cut in. “For now, let’s settle in.” He hefted their luggage inside, Emily mincing behind, her heels sinking into the dirt. As she stepped onto the porch, Barney lifted his head and rumbled a warning. She yelped and clutched William’s arm.
“Don’t mind him,” William said, ruffling the dog’s ears. “He’s just put out you called him useless.”
Barney’s tail thumped once—for his master, and no one else.
The next morning, Margaret led Emily to the garden. “See here—carrots there, weeds there. Pull the blighters out.”
Emily scowled. “They all look the same! I’m not a botanist!”
She laboured, grumbling, until sweat darkened her designer jumper and her manicure was ruined. When her back screamed for mercy, she flung down her trowel. “Enough! This isn’t ecotherapy—it’s serfdom!”
Margaret sighed. “I’d meant to show you the hens next.”
“Tomorrow!” Emily hobbled inside—only for Barney to bare his teeth as she passed.
“That beast loathes me!” she raged that evening. “What if he bites?”
“Barney’s never bitten a soul,” William said sharply. “You’ve affronted him, that’s all.”
“Should I apologise to the mongrel?”
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
Emily rolled her eyes.
Later, Margaret tried peacemaking. “Pet him, speak gently. He’ll come round.”
Emily scoffed. “As if I care what that creature thinks of me!”
Margaret turned away. Barney had always been a fine judge of character.
One sleepless night, Emily wandered into the moonlit yard. The stars were dazzling—until a rustle in the bushes made her jump. A growl sent her stumbling backward—straight into a nettle patch. Her shrieks brought William running.
“Blast it, Em, what were you doing out here?”
“That brute tried to savage me!” she spat, skin flaming.
“He was guarding his home,” William said flatly.
Emily seethed. The next day, she paid a farmhand to take Barney away. “Dump him where he can’t find his way back.”
When Barney vanished, Margaret was distraught. They searched the village in vain. “Where’s he gone?” she wept, sinking onto the porch where he’d always lain.
Emily shrugged. “Old dogs wander off to die. Get another.”
Margaret’s voice broke. “Barney wasn’t just a dog. He saved William’s life.” She turned to her son. “Remember the fire? You were five. He dragged you out—but your grandmother…”
William paled. “I’d forgotten.”
Emily stalked inside, unmoved.
That evening, William confronted her. “Did you have a hand in this?”
Under his glare, she confessed.
At dawn, he tracked down the farmhand. “Take me where you left him.”
The man led him to a lonely stretch of road. There, in the grass, lay Barney—still and cold.
“Tough old boy,” the farmhand muttered. “Walked farther than I reckoned.”
William cradled the lifeless body, grief thick in his throat. How would he tell his mother?
Margaret’s wail when she saw Barney’s wrapped form split the morning air. They buried him beneath the apple tree by the porch. William held his sobbing mother, wordless. Emily watched, baffled.
“Honestly, it’s just a dog.”
William packed her bags himself and drove her to the station.
“You’re sending me back alone?” she demanded.
“I don’t know when I’ll return,” he said quietly. “Or if I ever will.”
By summer’s end, he filed for divorce. Emily, already involved with another man, didn’t protest. Before returning to the countryside, William made one last stop—at a shelter.
“Are you certain about this pup?” the attendant asked. “He’ll grow quite large.”
“Quite certain,” William said, lifting the wriggling bundle. “He’ll have a big garden, a warm hearth, and a sunny porch to doze on.” He smiled as the puppy licked his cheek. “And splendid owners. Isn’t that right, Barney?”
