Victor Harper found him on the road back in October.
A little, drenched puppy was huddled on the shoulder of the A38, looking up at every passing lorry as if he were waiting for someone specific. Victor was driving out to the family farm to pick up some new potatoes, slowed for a beat, thinking the lad would just have a look and move on. But the pup lifted his head, and that was the end of the trip the potatoes stayed in the ground for another week.
He named him Mars. The name came from the neighbour, Mrs. Vera Clarke, who spotted the rustyeyed, floppyeared creature in the hallway and went:
Redmuzzled, nosey, a bit clumsy Mars. Sounds right.
Victor laughed.
Mars grew fast. By spring he was taking up the whole left side of the sofa and acted as if that were his birthright. At first Victor got annoyed, then he stopped. Sleeping alone in the flat felt worse than sharing the bed with a dog who snored and occasionally twitched a paw in his sleep.
They didnt become best mates straight away it was a slow build, like two people who have nowhere particular to rush. Morning walks, dinner at seven, the telly, and sometimes Victor would chat aloud to Mars. The dog would sit by his side, listening with a solemn stare, only yawning now and then, baring his teeth in a goofy grin.
Youre right, Victor would say. Thats enough. And hed flick the TV off.
—
The accident happened in April, on the way back from an evening stroll.
Victors memory of the exact moment is fuzzy. It was slippery, the car skidded onto the pavement around a bend, Mars was on a leash and then the leash snapped. Victor was thrown onto the curb, hit his side, lay there for a few seconds hearing only his own breathing and some distant shout.
When he got up, Mars was gone.
The broken leash lay on the road, its plastic clasp split in two.
He searched until midnight, covering three neighbourhood blocks, calling the pups name, asking passersby. They just shook their heads. One lad said hed seen a ginger dog sprint toward the railway crossing about forty minutes earlier, but that was all.
Back home, Victor sat at the kitchen table staring at an empty bowl.
Later he got up, typed up a notice, printed twenty copies, and the next morning plastered them on every lamppost in the estate. He also rang three local vets and the animal shelter on Willow Lane.
If a ginger mixedbreed turns up, please give me a call. Heres my number, he told each person on the phone.
A week slipped by. Then a month. The flyers faded under the May rain, so he reposted them, and did it again in June. The vets stayed quiet. The Willow Lane shelter called twice, both times by mistake it wasnt the right dog.
In July, Vera Clarke poked her head in from the flat next door and said gently:
Victor, maybe you could take another dog? The shelters got plenty.
No, Victor replied. She didnt bring it up again.
The flat felt different without Mars. It wasnt empty, just altered. The fridge hummed, the neighbours above started their halfpastnine chatter as usual, but something had shifted.
Victor picked up an old rubber ball that Mars used to chase down the hallway, put it on a shelf, then back in a drawer, then out again a little ritual.
Every morning his hand reached for the leash by the door out of habit. The leash hung there, but there was nowhere to go.
He started walking alone, same route, same time, just without the pup. He couldnt explain why, he just kept moving.
In August his daughter, Emily, called from York.
Dad, come up for a visit. You could stay with us, have a break.
I cant, he said.
Why not?
He paused. Maybe hell turn up again.
Emily was quiet too, then said Alright in that tone you use when youre holding back something else.
Mars turned up in October.
Victor heard scratching at the front door around eight in the evening. At first he thought it was the wind or a draft, but the sound came again, steady, like someone knew the door would open if they just kept at it.
He opened it.
Mars was sitting on the mat, a bit older now. His fur was clipped in a few places where old woundsd been, his left side a little scarred, and around his neck hung a leather collar, brown with a brass buckle and a tiny tag that read Buddy.
Victor stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the dog. Mars stared back, one ear drooping, a reddish starshaped patch on his forehead, the same amber eyes framed by dark lashes.
Youve been offroad, havent you? Victor said.
Mars got up, padded across the threshold with the confidence of a dog who knows every nook of the building. He trotted straight to his bowl empty, of course.
Victor shut the door, shuffled to the kitchen, his hands trembling a touch as he opened the fridge.
Alright, he muttered. Alright.
The next morning Victor took Mars to the local practice. The vet gave him the necessary shots, checked the microchip, and asked about the collar. She lifted the tag and read aloud:
Buddy. Is that another name?
Someone gave him a different name, Victor replied.
He lived with someone else?
About six months, I guess. No idea where.
The vet looked at Victor, then at Mars, then back again.
It happens, she said. Dogs can wander off and then find their way back, especially the clever ones.
Victor didnt answer, just watched Mars sit on the metal examination table, calm as ever, as the vet examined him.
On the back of the tag theyd written a phone number. Victor called it from his car while Mars rested his head on the back seat, watching the passing fields.
After a few rings, a voice answered.
Hello?
Good afternoon, Victor said. You had a dog, a ginger one, called Buddy?
There was a long pause.
Yes, said an older womans voice. He left us in September. Weve been looking for him.
Hes with me now. His names Mars. He went missing in April.
Another pause, then:
He was with us. We fed him, treated his wounds.
Thank you, Victor said. Hes a good dog.
Is he far from you? the woman asked. From Birchwood Road?
No, a different area.
Oh dear, she sighed. He just showed up by our fence in April, lay there and never left.
Victor stared out the windshield at the grey, leafless park opposite.
The call ended. He put the phone away. Mars nudged his head against the back seat, resting his chin on Victors lap.
Back home Victor took off the foreign collar, placed it on the table and stared at it brown leather, solid work, not cheap.
Six months somewhere else, and the dog still found his way back.
Victor thought of the woman on Birchwood Road, how shed fed him every day, petted him, probably grown attached. Then, in September, shed woken up and he was gone, still searching.
He dialed again.
This is Victor again, he said when she answered. If youd like to see him, Im happy to arrange it.
Silence.
Really? she asked.
Yes, really.
She turned up on a Saturday Galina Petrov, sixtyfour, in a grey coat with a canvas bag full of apple jam and a sack of dog biscuits, the very treats Mars had grown used to over those months.
Mars saw her from the hallway, didnt bolt. He padded over, nudged her hand with his nose, tail wagging like a flag.
They sat with tea. Galina told how shed found him by the fence in April, taken him to the vet, how scared he was at first but soon settled. Victor recounted the crash, the broken leash, the flyers hed stuck up everywhere.
Mars lay between them, dozing, occasionally lifting his head to glance at each of them.
Hes chosen both of us, Galina said.
Victor looked at the dog, then at Galina.
Seems that way, he replied.
He tucked the strangers collar into a drawer, not throwing it away.
Mars reclaimed the left side of the sofa, chased his ball down the hallway at midnight, and the flyers on the lampposts peeled away under the November rain.
Galina visited on Saturdays, bringing jam, asking for advice about blackcurrants she kept a small garden on Birchwood Road, and Victor was learning a bit about gardening himself. They talked while Mars napped between them.
One evening Victor pulled the leather Buddy collar from the drawer, tipped it in the hallway light. The brass tag caught the glow.
Two leashes hung by the entrance: one old red one, the other a fresh blue one Galina had slipped up on a recent Saturday, never asking permission.
And thats how life settled back into its odd, comfortable rhythm, with Mars back where he belonged, and a couple of new friends sharing the story over a cuppa.
