I couldnt leave him, Mum, whispered Michael. Do you understand? I just couldnt.
Michael was fourteen, and it felt as though the whole world was against him. Or, perhaps more precisely, that nobody wanted to understand him.
There he is againthat troublesome lad! muttered Mrs. Clara from number eight as she hurried to the far side of the square. Just his mother raising him, thats the trouble. Thats the result!
Michael passed by, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his frayed jeans, pretending not to hear. He heard every word.
Mother was working late again, as always. On the kitchen table, a note: Cutlets are in the fridge, just warm them up. And silence. Always silence.
Now he trudged home after teachers had once more had words about his behaviour, as they called it. As though he didnt understand he was the cause of trouble for everyone. But he did. What difference did that make?
Oi, lad! called out Mr. Victor, the neighbour from the ground floor. Did you see that limping dog in the square? Somebody ought to chase it off.
Michael stopped and peered across the yard.
Next to the bins lay a dognot a puppy, but an adulta ginger thing with splashes of white. He lay motionless, only his eyes tracked people passing by. Clever eyes, sad eyes.
Cant someone get rid of it? chimed in Mrs Clara. Its probably ill!
Michael drew closer. The dog didnt move, only weakly wagged his tail. A torn wound on his hind leg, blood caked around it.
What are you standing there for? snapped Mr. Victor. Grab a stick and drive it away!
At that moment, something inside Michael snapped.
Just you dare touch him! he said sharply, stepping in front to shield the dog. Hes not done anyone any harm!
Well, look at that, Mr. Victor scoffed. A little champion, are you?
Ill stand up for him! Michael crouched beside the dog, gingerly reaching out his hand. The dog sniffed his fingers and softly licked his palm.
A warmth flooded through Michaels chest. For the first time in ages, someone had shown him kindness.
Come on, then, he whispered to the dog. Come with me.
At home, Michael made a bed for the dog out of old jackets in the corner of his room. With Mum at work till evening, no one would shout or chase the filthy mutt out.
The wound looked nasty. Michael searched the internet, reading articles on animal first aid. He struggled through medical terms but did his best to commit every step to memory.
Got to clean it with antiseptic, he muttered, rummaging through the first aid box. Then dab the edges with iodine. Careful, careful, dont hurt him…
The dog lay quietly, trustingly offering his injured leg. He gazed, gratefulthat kind of look Michael hadnt received in a long time.
What should I call you? Michael gently bandaged the leg. Youre ginger. Shall I call you Ginger, then?
The dog barked softly, almost approving.
That evening Mum came home. Michael braced for an argument, but she quietly examined Ginger, gently feeling the bandage.
Did you do this? her voice was low.
I did. Found instructions online.
How will you feed him?
Ill find a way.
Mum looked at her son for a long moment, then at the dog as Ginger licked her hand, trusting.
Tomorrow well take him to the vet, she decided. See to that leg. Have you settled on a name?
Ginger, Michael beamed.
For the first time in many months, there was no wall between them.
The next morning, Michael rose an hour earlier than usual. Ginger tried to stand, whimpering from the pain.
Easy now, soothed Michael. Ill fetch water and a bit of food.
There was no dog food at home, so he gave Ginger his last cutlet and soaked some bread in milk. Ginger ate hungrily but with care, licking up every crumb.
At school, for the first time in ages, Michael didnt argue with teachers. His mind was on Ginger. Was he in pain? Was he lonely?
You seem different today, remarked Miss Eleanor, the form teacher.
Michael just shrugged, unwilling to explain. Theyd only laugh.
After school, he rushed home, ignoring neighbours sour faces. Ginger greeted him with a happy barkhe could almost stand on three legs now.
Well then, pal, do you fancy the outdoors? Michael fashioned a lead from string. Careful now, mind that leg.
Something strange happened in the square. When Mrs Clara saw them, she nearly dropped her shopping.
Hes actually taken it home! Michael! You must have lost your wits!
Whats the problem? he replied calmly. Im looking after him. Hell be well soon.
Looking after him? Where do you get the money for medicine? Stealing from your mum? the neighbour pressed.
Michael clenched his fists but stayed quiet. Ginger pressed close to his legsensing tension.
Im not stealing. Im spending my own moneysaved from breakfasts, he said softly.
Mr. Victor shook his head.
You know, lad, youre dealing with a living soul. Hes not a toy. You have to feed him, heal him, walk him.
Now every day began with a morning walk. Ginger recovered quickly, soon runningthough with a bit of a limp. Michael taught him commands, patiently, for hours on end.
Sit! Good boy! Give me your paw! Thats it!
Neighbours watched from afarsome shaking their heads, some smiling. But Michael saw nothing except Gingers loyal eyes.
It changed himslowly, but surely. He stopped being rude, started tidying up at home, even his grades improved. He had a purpose now. The start of something new.
Three weeks later, Michael faced what he dreaded most.
Walking home with Ginger after an evening stroll, a pack of mongrels darted out from behind the garages. Five, maybe six dogsferal, hungry, eyes glinting in the dusk. The leader, a massive black dog, bared his teeth and advanced.
Ginger instinctively retreated, pressing behind Michael. His leg still sorerunning wasnt an option. The pack sensed weakness.
Back off! Michael shouted, swinging the lead. Go on! Get out of it!
But the pack circled, undeterred. The black leader snarled louder, set to leap.
Michael! came a cry from overheada womans voice. Run! Leave the dog and run!
It was Mrs Clara, leaning from her window. Other neighbours peered out behind her.
Dont be a fool! yelled Mr. Victor. Hes lame, he cant escape!
Michael glanced at Ginger. The dog trembled but stood his ground, pressing closer, ready for whatever came.
The big black dog leapt first. Michael shielded himself with his arms, but the bite hit his shoulderteeth tearing his jacket and skin.
But Ginger, hurt leg and all, ignoring his fear, sprang to defend. He latched onto the leaders leg, hanging on with all his weight.
It was chaos. Michael kicked and punched, trying desperately to shield Ginger from the biting, scratching mob. He got bitten, scratched, but didnt back down.
Heavens above, whatevers happening! wailed Mrs Clara from the window. Victor, do something!
Mr. Victor rushed down, grabbing a stick, anything he could find.
Hold on, lad! he shouted. Im coming!
Michael was nearly overwhelmed when he heard a familiar voice:
Off with you!
It was his mum, dashing out of the building, a bucket of water in handthrowing it at the dogs. The pack yelped and recoiled.
Victor, help! she shouted.
Mr. Victor rushed over with his stick, more neighbours joining from above. The mongrels, seeing the tables turn, bolted.
Michael lay on the pavement, clutching Ginger. Both bleeding, both shaking. But alive. Whole.
Son, mum knelt beside him, gently inspecting his wounds. You scared me half to death.
I couldnt leave him, Mum, whispered Michael. You understand? I couldnt.
I do, she replied softly.
Mrs Clara came down to the square, approaching. She looked at Michael strangelyas though seeing him for the first time.
Boy, she said, flustered, You could have died. Because of a dog.
Not because of a dog, Mr. Victor interjected suddenly. For a friend, Clara. Theres a difference.
The neighbour nodded, tears shining on her cheeks.
Lets go in, said Mum. Time to clean up those wounds. Gingers too.
Michael struggled to his feet, lifting the dog into his arms. Ginger whimpered, but his tail flickeredglad to have his master beside him.
Wait, Mr. Victor stopped them. Are you off to the vet in the morning?
We are.
Ill drive you. And pay for the treatmentthis dogs proved himself a hero.
Michael looked at his neighbour in surprise.
Thank you, Mr. Victor. But honestly, I can
No arguments. Youll pay me back when youre able. For nowhe patted Michaels shoulderfor now, were all proud of you. Isnt that right?
Neighbours nodded without a word.
Time passed. A typical October evening found Michael returning from the veterinary clinic, now helping as a volunteer on weekends. Ginger ran beside himhis leg healed, limp nearly gone.
Michael! called Mrs Clara. Wait up!
He stopped, bracing for another lecture. Instead, she handed him a bag of dog food.
This is for Ginger, she said, awkward; the good stuff. Its expensive, but you look after him so well.
Thank you, Mrs. Clara, Michael said sincerely. But we have some. I earn a bit at the clinic nowDr. Anne pays me.
Take it anyway. Youll need it some day.
At home, Mum was making supper. Seeing her son, she smiled:
How are things at the clinic? Is Dr. Anne pleased with you?
She says Ive got good hands. And patience. Im thinkingmaybe Ill become a vet. Im serious, Mum.
And your schoolwork?
Fine. Even Mr. Peters has said Im trying. Says Im more attentive now.
Mum nodded. In that one month, her son had changed beyond recognition. No more rudeness, helpful around the house, greeted the neighbours. And most importantly, he had a goal. A dream.
You know, she said, Victors coming round tomorrow. He wants to offer you another job. His friend runs a kennel and needs a helper.
Michael brightened.
Really? Can I take Ginger with me?
I think so. Hes almost a working dog now.
That evening, Michael sat in the square with Ginger. They practised a new commandguard. The dog worked hard, eyes full of devotion.
Mr. Victor walked over and sat beside them.
Off to the kennel tomorrow, then?
Yes, with Ginger.
Best turn in early. Youll have a busy day.
After Mr. Victor left, Michael lingered a little longer. Ginger laid his head on Michaels lap, sighing in content.
They had found each other now. And they would never be alone again.
