Mum blocked my number one Tuesday afternoon. Suddenly, instead of a ring, I was met with a mechanical, The number you have dialed is not available. That wasnt some lesson inspired by parenting booksit was her desperation. She was simply tired of hearing, month after month, yet another, Just lend me a little, so I can make it to Monday.
I was twenty-two then, convinced the world owed me something. I couldnt bear the thought of working for an ordinary wage, and waited for the big break. Until then, I lived off Mums bank transfers. The money disappeared on nonsense: video games, pointless outings, food deliveriesbecause cooking myself felt like too much effort.
When the landlord realised thered be no payment, he simply showed me the door. All I had left was my old parents Ford Escort and Baron, my loyal German Shorthaired Pointer. The dog was the one friend who waited patiently for my return after wandering about town.
My first night in the car, I thought it would be temporary. By the third, I understood the food was gone. Only a few coins rattled in my pocket. I bought myself a pot noodle and Baron the cheapest dog food I could find at the corner shop. In the morning, Baron couldnt get up. His body, accustomed to a special diet, was failing him. He lay in the back seat, panting heavily and looking at me with such sadness it felt like goodbye. German Shorthaired Pointers have weak digestion, and I, in my selfishness, had skimped on decent food for him weeks ago.
I drove to Mums in our little town. I just wanted us to be fed and warm. But the lock had been changed. I stood outside her window, dialling her numbersilence. I sent messagesno reply.
I slumped on the kerb, completely helpless. The neighbour from the downstairs flat brought over a package.
Helen asked me to give you this.
Inside was a supply of Barons special food and medicine. Not a penny, not a note. Only this packagea sign that she cared for the dog, but had nothing left to say to me.
I wanted to drive Baron to the vet, but the car finally gave outthe battery was completely dead. No money for a taxi, no friends left to ask. The clinic was several neighbourhoods away.
I carried Baron myself. Thirty kilograms. It wasnt like the filmsheroic and tidy. I was breathless, sweating, stopping again and again as my legs buckled under the strain. People dodged past, as if I was some vagrant. When I finally reached the clinics doorstep, I collapsed onto the bench, dog clinging to my lap.
The vet, a family acquaintance, examined Baron, then looked at me closely.
Did you carry him yourself?
The car wouldnt start, I croaked.
Need a job? My mate at the metal yard needs a labourer. It isnt glamorous, but they pay fair. Give it a go. If you dont, Ill take Baron myselfotherwise youll ruin him.
I took the job. Not because I suddenly became courageous, but because for the first time, I was properly scared. I worked at the warehouse late into the evening, learned the feel of hard graft, slept in the Escort, and saved enough for a room in a hostel.
I changed. That carefree youth vanished. My reflection showed a man with tired but calm eyes, and hands roughened from honest work. At last, I understood the value of every pound.
Half a year later, I returned to Mum. I wasnt there to ask for anything. I entered quietly, set some money on the dresser, and finally fixed the tap in the kitchen and the door to the back room, things I’d ignored for years.
Mum stood beside me. No reproach, no wordsjust placed her hand on my shoulder. For the first time in ages, I felt not like her little boy, but a grown man.
She hadnt blocked me because she stopped loving me. She did it because seeing my weakness hurt too much. Sometimes, you have to carry your dog through the whole town on your own shoulders, to understand: no one else will live your life for you.
