“Buster! Buster, come here, quick!” William leaped out of the car and rushed toward the dog lying on the roadside. But Buster didn’t get up or wag his tail. A searing realisation struck William—something irreversible had happened. The dog was dead. “What will I tell Mum now?” he thought, bending over Buster’s lifeless body as uninvited tears dripped onto the old hound’s grey muzzle.
Mrs. Eleanor Robinson’s elderly dog had taken an instant dislike to her daughter-in-law, Emily. From their very first meeting, he’d growled deep in his throat whenever she walked past and thumped his tail anxiously against the wooden porch. Emily feared and quietly loathed him.
“That useless monster… If it were up to me, he’d have been put down ages ago!” she’d threaten Buster.
“Em, don’t say things like that! Maybe he doesn’t like your perfume, or the click of your heels bothers him. He’s an old dog, and old dogs get odd habits,” William would soothe his wife.
Mrs. Robinson only watched disapprovingly. If that silly girl only knew what Buster really was! He’d done far more good in his life than Emily ever had.
Mrs. Robinson had always tried not to interfere in her son’s life. Even when he introduced her to his fiancée, Emily, she hadn’t objected—though something about the girl unsettled her. There was a falseness, a coldness in Emily’s smile that never reached her eyes. When William asked, “Mum, don’t you think Emily’s lovely?” she simply replied,
“You’re the one marrying her, love. As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters. You have my blessing.” Then she hugged him tightly and kissed him like only a mother could.
After the wedding, the couple moved into Emily’s inherited flat in London. William rarely visited his mother in the countryside now, though he missed her. Emily refused to go—she preferred comfortable holidays, and he didn’t like arguing. But this summer, she suddenly became enamoured with the idea of an eco-retreat.
“I read online that rural getaways are brilliant for stress and health. City life is exhausting, and we all sit around too much! Besides, it’s so fashionable now. Though absurdly expensive… So I thought of your mum’s village instead,” Emily said, packing their bags.
William was thrilled—he hadn’t been home in ages, and if playing at eco-tourism got him there, he’d do it. Working remotely meant he could stay, so within days, they arrived.
Mrs. Robinson welcomed them warmly. “You’ve finally come! Proper rest at last. It’s just as good as those foreign resorts.”
“I wouldn’t go that far…” Emily muttered. “By the way, do you have any livestock? Rural tourism means immersing in authentic country life.”
Mrs. Robinson wasn’t sure what Emily meant by “immersion” but answered, “Just Buster and a few chickens. Had a goat once… Poor thing passed last year.”
Emily curled her lip at the old dog sprawled on the sunny porch. “I meant useful animals. Not this geriatric mutt. Frankly, I’m shocked he’s still alive.”
“There’s the vegetable patch—plenty of work there! Immerse yourself all you like,” Mrs. Robinson said quickly.
“We’ll start tomorrow, Mum,” William cut in. “Both of us. I’ll chop wood, fix the fence, whatever you need. For now, let’s turn in.”
He hauled their bags inside while Emily tottered behind, her heels sinking into the dirt, muttering curses. As she stepped onto the porch, Buster lifted his grizzled head and growled. She shrieked and hid behind William, who ruffled the dog’s ears.
“Don’t mind her, Buster. She didn’t mean it…”
Buster wagged his tail, overjoyed to see the boy he’d known since childhood.
The next morning, Mrs. Robinson showed Emily around. “Here’s the chicken coop, the apple trees, the blackcurrants… And this is the vegetable patch. Needs weeding badly.”
Emily struggled—every green shoot looked the same. She couldn’t tell weeds from crops.
“See? These are carrots; that’s a dandelion. Pull it out, the pest!”
“I’ve seen dandelions! But the rest is just grass to me!” Emily snapped. She sweated, swore, ruined her manicure, and after an hour, her back screamed for rest.
“That’s enough! This isn’t eco-tourism—it’s slave labour! How is this healthy?”
“I was going to introduce you to the hens next…”
“Tomorrow!”
Hobbling inside, she found Buster blocking the porch. He bared his teeth silently. She sidestepped past, shuddering.
“That dog hates me! What if he bites?” she complained that evening.
“Buster’s never bitten anyone! He’s just guarding his home. You’ve offended him.”
“Should I apologise to the mutt?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
Emily rolled her eyes—her husband had lost it.
Later, Mrs. Robinson tried mediating. “Pet him, talk to him. He’ll warm to you.”
“Why would I care what some stray thinks? You’re mad, humanising an animal!”
Mrs. Robinson sighed. Buster knew what she did—there was something unkind in Emily.
One sleepless night, Emily wandered outside. The stars dazzled; the air was still. Then—rustling. A growl. She bolted, tripped, and screamed as stinging nettles seared her skin.
William rushed out, finding her thrashing in the ditch.
“Why wander in the dark?” he scolded, pulling her free.
“Your ‘gentle’ Buster tried to eat me!” she hissed.
“He was protecting the house! Who knows what’s out at night?”
Emily said nothing but vowed revenge. The next day, she paid a local man to take Buster away.
“Drop him far enough that he can’t come back. If he lives—fine. If not—good riddance.”
The man nodded—money was money.
“William, have you seen Buster? He never strays far,” Mrs. Robinson fretted the next morning.
They searched the village in vain. By evening, she wept on the porch.
“Why fuss over an old dog?” Emily said. “He probably wandered off to die. Get a new one.”
“Buster wasn’t just a dog,” Mrs. Robinson choked. “He was family. He saved William once.”
“Saved me?”
“There was a fire when you were five. Your grandma was watching you. Buster dragged you out unconscious—you were struck by a beam. Your grandma didn’t make it. You forgot, but I remember…”
William paled. “I’ll find him.”
Emily sneaked away. “Sentimental old woman! So the dog did one good thing—does that mean he can lunge at people now?”
Later, William cornered her. “If you know anything, tell me. I won’t shout.”
Emily’s eyes darted. “Maybe we shouldn’t look…”
“Tell me!” he roared, slamming the table. Terrified, she confessed.
Soon, William was knocking on a farmhouse door. The man yawned. “Pay me, and I’ll take you where I left him.”
At dawn, William followed the man’s tractor down a dirt track. Then—he saw him.
“Buster! Come here, boy!”
But Buster didn’t move. William knelt, heart breaking. He was gone.
“Tough old thing. I dropped him miles away,” the man said.
William cradled Buster’s body, wrapped him in his coat, and drove home.
Mrs. Robinson screamed when she saw him. She clung to Buster’s head, sobbing. They buried him under the old apple tree by the porch. William held his mother, silent. Words were useless.
Emily had left hours earlier. “Why make a scene over a dead dog?”
William packed her suitcases and drove her to the station.
“You’re making me go alone?”
He said nothing.
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Or if I will.”
By summer’s end, William filed for divorce. Emily didn’t care—she’d already moved on. He returned to his mother, stopping first at a shelter.
“Are you sure about this pup? He’ll be big—not suited for a flat.”
“Absolutely. He’ll have a huge garden, a cosy home, and a sunny porch to nap on.” William lifted the squirming puppy. “And the best family. Right, Buster?”
The pup licked his cheek. He agreed.
