Mum blocked my number on Tuesday afternoon, just like that. One moment I was hearing the usual ringing, then suddenly it was that robotic, the number you have dialled is not available. This wasnt some kind of parenting lesson out of a psychology bookthis was Mums desperation. Shed just had enough of my monthly, can you send me a bit more, I just need to make it through till Monday.
Im twenty-two, and honestly, I thought life owed me something. I didnt want to settle for an ordinary wage; I kept waiting for the big break. While I waited, I got by on Mums bank transfers. Most of it vanished on pointless stuff: games, nights out, takeawaysbecause cooking felt like too much effort.
When the landlord realised rent wasnt coming, he simply pointed at the door. All I had left was my parents old Ford Focus and Baron, my German Shorthaired Pointer. Baron was just my mate, the one who patiently waited for me to stagger home from yet another pub crawl.
The first night in the car, I thought it was just temporary. By the third, the food supply had run dry. I had only a few coins rattling in my pocket. I bought myself instant noodles and Baron the cheapest dog food I could find at the corner shop. His stomach, used to a special diet, couldnt handle it. The next morning, Baron couldnt stand; he lay in the back seat, struggling to breathe, looking at me with such sadness, it felt like a last goodbye. Shorthaired Pointers dont have strong digestion, and like a selfish idiot, I skimped on proper food for him last week to save money.
I drove to my home town, hoping to go up and get us fed and warmed up. But theyd changed the locks. I stood under the window, dialling Mums numbersilence. I messaged herno reply.
I sat on the kerb, feeling utterly helpless. Mrs. Green from downstairs came out with a parcel.
Helen asked me to give you this.
Inside were a stash of Barons special food and meds. Not a penny. Not a note. Just that parcela sign she cared about the dog, but she had nothing left to say to me.
I wanted to get Baron to the vet, but the car failed at the worst momentthe battery had completely died. No money for a cab, no friends to call. The vet was a couple of neighbourhoods away.
I picked up Baron. Thirty kilos. It wasnt glamorous, like in the films. I was gasping for air, sweating buckets, stopping every few minutes because my legs just gave way from sheer effort. People skirted around me, like I was some homeless bloke. When I finally staggered to the vets doorway, I just collapsed onto the bench, clutching Baron.
The vet, who remembered my dad, examined Baron and then looked me dead in the eye.
Did you carry him all the way?
My car wouldnt start, I croaked.
Need a job? My mate Tom runs a scrapyardhes after some lads for lifting. Its tough, but he pays straight. Give it a try, youll manage. If you dont, Ill take Baron myself, because youre not looking after him.
I took the job. Not because I suddenly became a hero, but because I was properly scared. I worked in the warehouse till late, got used to the graft, slept in the car, until I scraped enough for my first rent in a bedsit.
I changed. That careless youth was gone. The bloke in the mirror had tired but calm eyes, and rough hands from real work. I finally understood what every pound was worth.
Six months later, I drove over to Mums. Not to ask for anything. I walked in, quietly set down cash on the table, and finally fixed the leaking kitchen tap and that bedroom door Id always ignored.
Mum stood nearby. She didnt scold. She just walked up and rested her hand on my shoulder. For the first time, I felt like a grown man, not just her little boy.
She hadnt blocked me because she stopped loving meit hurt her to see me so weak. Sometimes you have to carry your dog across the city on your own back to realise: no one else is going to live your life for you.
