I mustve been about five or six, not yet in school, sometime at the start of the nineties, when two pensioners from the cityMrs. Vera Kingsley and Mr. Alex Kingsleymoved to our village. They bought the cottage straight across from us; a low-slung place with two little windows looking onto the lane, but with the sort of back garden that wouldve sent any green-thumbed retiree into hysterics. Sensibly, given their age, they refused to dig it up and left it to the weeds. Mostly, they took walkssometimes to the woods, other times down by the river, and now and then made the pilgrimage to the market town for groceries. They lived quietly, almost invisibly. They never popped in for a chat unless it was their twice-weekly dash for some milk. We ran a respectable little menageriepigs, cows, chickens, the worksbut lived rather modestly, and Mrs. Kingsley would often slip me small treasures: a bar of chocolate, a new notebook, sometimes even a shiny pound note, pressed into my palm with a conspiratorial wink. The Kingsleys had no children of their own.
They lived there perhaps three years when, one wintry evening, just as wed clicked the telly off and settled into bed, a gentle tapping came at the window. It was Mrs. Kingsley, who whispered, barely above a breathAlex passed away.
We helped with the funeral as best we could.
Afterwards, Mrs. Kingsley struggled terribly with the loss, fell into poor health, and hardly dared set foot outside. We started visiting nearly every day, and each time shed tell us about her fifty-two years with Mr. Kingsleyhow theyd toiled in a factory, and when they finally retired, theyd handed their city flat to a niece and run away to the countryside for some peace and birdsong.
Come spring, Mrs. Kingsley started finding her feet again. Then one day, she called me over, beckoned me through the sagging gate, and showed me, tucked in a box, the tiniest, most bedraggled grey puppy youve ever seen. Now, speaking candidly, I wasnt much for dogs, but upon laying eyes on that pup, my heart did a somersault, and that was thata love affair for the ages.
Years on, I remember clear as day: sitting cross-legged on her linoleum floor, stroking his little head with one finger while Mrs. Kingsley perched on her armchair, gazing at us in turn and, for the first time in ages, cracking an unapologetically toothless grin.
Alex and I never had a cat or a dog. No children either, as you know. Its awfully lonely now. I found this scruffy chap by the market behind the bins. Well, look at his sweet face. How could anyone not?
I barely dared breathe, lest the magic vanish.
What does he eat? He must be starving! My voice threatened to wobble into a wail.
I warmed some milk for him, but he cant lap it up, the poor dear. Needs a bottle, but I havent got one. Ill get one tomorrow, Mrs. Kingsley admitted, all but whispering.
I shot home and, with the stealth of a ninja, liberated the bottle from my sleeping baby sisters mouth.
Turns out the puppy was just a few days old. I did my best to coax warm milk through the bottle and into his tiny mouth, fretting all the while that hed conk out on us.
It took us over a weekMrs. Kingsley and meto come up with a name. She tried calling him Ginger because of his rusty ears; I felt that was entirely too silly and lobbied hard for Murphy. He was so gentle and quiet, like a little mouse. Murphy it was, and Murphy he remained, in one affectionate form or another: Murph, Murphles, OiYouMurphy.
We nursed Murphy through to summerheating up milk, making him proper meals, and once it was warm, letting him wobble out onto the grass. Murphy, having missed his mum and the usual doggie beginnings, was frail and a touch poorly, but we lavished care on him. Every day after school, Id run straight to Mrs. Kingsley to check on Murphy before doing homework or tending chickens, and then Id spend all evening at her place. I played with Murphy as if he were a kitten, while she sat on the divan smiling as if the two of us had done something unspeakably clever.
By the time summer rolled into autumn, Murphy had grown, but only into a scrappy little thing, maybe a foot at the shoulder. Id take him fishing or walk the cows out with him at my side, and when I was busy, hed scamper round Mrs. Kingsleys ankles. With Murphy, Mrs. Kingsley perked up, gained some colour, and devoted herself to him absolutely: preparing his food separately, brushing his fur, binging books on dog care and treatment like she was cramming for canine medical school.
The years rolled by. Year after year, Murphy lived at Mrs. Kingsleys, but every morning hed scamper over to our porch, patiently waiting to accompany me the three-mile trek to school. Each afternoon, hed greet me at the school gates to walk back, whatever the weather. Nine years of this; rain, wind, deep mud or frost, he never missed a beat.
Our village school was only good for the basics, so at sixteen, I had to go off to technical college in the city. The family decided my future depended on it, and that was that.
On the morning I was due to leave, I sat for ages on Mrs. Kingsleys step, Murphy on my lap, both of us blubbering.
Take him with you if its so hard to leave him, Mrs. Kingsley cried.
But how? Murphys your dog. Look after each other. Mumll visit every day. Ill ring, all the time, I tried, sniffling.
As the riverboat pulled away, I stood on deck, streaming tears. Murphy raced up and down the sagging dock, tongue lolling, and watched me go as if to say, Well, this has to be a mistake.
At college, life swept me up. I buried myself in books on animal husbandry and economics, kept to myself except for the odd chat with an old schoolmate down the corridor.
Just before my Christmas hols, Mum phoned: Mrs. Kingsley was ailing badly, had been bedridden for a week, and Murphy wouldnt leave her sidehe even had his food bowl brought to the foot of her bed.
I came home early. Murphy sat on a chair by her bed, never taking his sad, moist eyes off her. She tried to give his head a feeble stroke and touch his little nose with her trembling hand. They were both heartbreakingly thin. It was agony to seea dying old lady and her last, loyal comfort.
When I left after Christmas, we all knew it was goodbye. Murphy wouldnt come with me, not even past the porch. He simply couldnt leave her side. I could feel a huge ache for the little dogs soul, as hed taken it upon himself to be her faithful child.
Mrs. Kingsley died that February.
Now, an ordinary person might ask, Whats a sixteen-year-old lad doing mourning over someone elses gran and their dog? But the loss of your only true kin, replaced by a dogs unswerving devotion, is a particular pain. Theres no heartbreak like a dogs after youre gone.
I didnt get home until after term. No one knew where Murphy had got to. Mum told me at the funeral, Murphy ran rounds the grave, trying to jump in after Mrs. Kingsley, until the gravediggers had to shoo him away. They took Murphy in, Dad even built a little kennel with a tartan blanket. But Murphy refused to stay; after a while, he wandered back to Mrs. Kingsleys empty house, then disappeared altogether, not waiting for me.
I spent half the summer tramping around the next villages, showing his photo to everyone, asking after him, canvassing the market town. Nowhere. When Mrs. Kingsley was buried, perhaps Murphy thought shed return, so he waited at home, but when she never did, he set off looking. That was my theory.
August came around.
One day, all of us piled into the car to visit the cemetery at Maplebrook Copse, a good thirty miles from our village. I never imagined to search for Murphy so far from home.
But the moment we stepped out by the old church, who should come tearing across the grassears streaming, tongue flapping, a one-dog fanfarebut my Murphy.
I dropped to my knees and burst into tears.
Murphy! You little rascal. I looked for you everywhere, all summer, and here you are!
He clambered up on his back legs, licking my face, and I swear he was crying too.
Once Id stood up, Murphy bounced up and down nearly to my head, wagging like a wind-up toy.
He was filthy and skinny. I emptied the whole picnic hamperfor him, it was a feast of sarnies, sausage rolls, cakes. He wolfed it all, eyes never leaving mine, as if making sure I wasnt about to vanish again.
Is that your dog? a woman from the church asked.
Hes Murphy, yes, Mum replied, dabbing her eyes.
I work at the church. Since late spring, noticed him abouthes been living by one grave, digging it all up. Did such a job, I thought the headstoned topple. Id fill it in and hed go back to digging.
We all knew, of courseit was Mrs. Kingsleys grave.
We wandered to our family plot, Murphy glued to my heels. The grave, shared with Mr. Kingsley, was as raked over as an archaeologists dig, but only on the side where dear Mrs. Kingsley lay. Dad straightened the cross, Mum arranged flowers, and I crouched on my haunches, cradling Murphy, who peered up miserably before giving me a lick.
Dont force him to come back with us today, Dad said softly. Let him choose. He might want to stay.
I dont want to leave him here. Autumns coming, then winter. Murphys no spring chickenhes nearly ten. But if he stays, hell just scarper after us anyway, all those miles wont stop him, I replied, already losing the argument.
When we left the grave, Murphy dashed between us and the mound, torn with indecision. Only once wed settled in the car, did he bolt in, leaping straight onto my lap.
Murphy, my friend, I promise, youll never be alone again, I said, sobbing, hugging him tight.
And for all the strange and small loves that shape a lifeperhaps thats the truest: a lonely old lady, an unwanted puppy, and a boy who learned that love, when given freely, never goes astray.
