Eleanor Whitaker was shuffling out of the chemist, her mind fixated on a single thought get home without any mishap.
Staffwalk. Step. Staffwalk. Step. Her leg ached, the parcel of medicines digging into her palm. October that year was a cruel one damp, misty, showing no sign of mercy.
Another block. A little farther.
She was just about to pass the childrens playground when a faint whimper rose from the hedges beside the garden fence.
Eleanor halted. She lingered a heartbeat, thinking: Im already too weary, just get home. Yet she turned aside anyway.
She pushed aside the tangled branches.
There lay a shepherddog, fullgrown yet utterly helpless. Its front leg was both fresh and dried with blood. The coat hung in clumps, ribs starkly outlined beneath. But the worst part were the eyes alive, but on the verge of surrender. Eleanor had seen such eyes before; she knew what they meant.
The dog stared at her, making no growl.
Just a stare.
What am I to do with you? Eleanor muttered, a sigh slipping out more than a question.
She fished a mobile from her bag and dialed a cab the first one shed called in months, trying to stretch her pension. She gave the address of the veterinary practice on Woodland Road.
The driver, spotting the animal, made a sour face.
Normally we dont take pets. Only if they go in the boot. Wont they dirty it?
It wont, Eleanor replied, in that tone shed once used with reluctant healthcare workers. Help me load it, please.
Surprisingly, the driver didnt argue. He hoisted the dog into the boot almost singlehanded.
At the clinic the vet diagnosed a broken leg, a torn wound and severe exhaustion. An operation was urgent.
The cost was read out.
Eleanor fell silent for a moment, then opened her wallet.
It was almost her entire state pension.
Almost all but not quite, she whispered to herself, and laid the money on the counter.
She trudged back home late that night, the dog in tow, the medicine bag clutched, a twopage instruction sheet in fine print tucked under her arm.
The dog, the moment she stepped inside, flopped onto the hallway floor. Eleanor sat beside it.
The shepherd lay with its bandaged leg stretched out, giving Eleanor no more than a glance.
Well then, she said. If you wont look, I wont force you. As long as youre alive, thats enough.
She barely slept that night, listening to the house settle, rising twice to check the dog, flashing a light from her phone.
In the morning her daughter Emily called.
Mum, how are you?
Fine. Ive just taken in a dog.
Silence stretched long.
What kind of dog?
A shepherd. It was wounded, found in the bushes. I took it to the vet.
Mum, Emilys voice grew tight, as though she were fighting herself, are you serious? You can barely walk! What money are you spending?
My own.
Your pension?
Emily, please dont shout.
Im not shouting, Im just speaking. Mum, we arranged that Id be moving into my flat soon, you were supposed to come with me, and instead you
Emily, Eleanor said calmly, Ill call you back later.
She hung up.
Later that conversation faded; other concerns took precedence.
The first few days were bleak. The dog refused food. Eleanor bought everything she could pâté, boiled chicken, rice in broth set a bowl down, stepped away, and returned to find it untouched.
She would sit on the floor, slowly, with a groan, and hold a morsel out of her palm, just waiting.
On the third day the dog nudged forward and snatched a tiny piece of chicken.
Eleanor didnt smile; she simply stayed motionless, afraid to startle it.
She eventually named her Molly. It wasnt an instant decision; at first she thought, why give a name if the dog might not stay? Then she realised, if she was going to keep it, it deserved a name.
Molly was terrified of everything sudden noises, unfamiliar gestures. When Eleanor first tried to pat her head, the dog curled up as if expecting a blow.
Who could have taught her that?
Eleanor didnt press. She just rested her hand near the blanket, near the leg. The hand lay there, no pressure, letting the dog acclimatise.
Days slipped by in the same rhythm.
Each morning and evening they ventured out.
Molly descended the stairs carefully, on three legs the fourth still being guarded. Eleanor, too, used the banister for support. Two wooden hips, she mused, just like a pair.
They would reach the bench beneath the lone oak and pause. Eleanor would sit; Molly would stand nearby, eyes scanning the surroundings, alert as if danger lurked behind every hedge.
That became their routine first to the bench and back, then to the corner of the house, then round the whole garden. Eleanor returned home feeling a low hum in her legs, different from before. Not weakness, but fatigue, a new kind of tiredness.
In November Emily turned up without warning. She rang the doorbell, stepped inside and halted in the hallway. She saw Molly lying on her rug, the bowls against the wall, a leash hanging from a hook, and Eleanor, tea cooling on the kitchen table, cheeks flushed from the walk.
Mum, you look okay, Emily said, bewildered as if expecting something else.
I walk twice a day, Eleanor replied. Sit, Ill get you a cuppa.
Emily sat, watching Molly, who lifted her head politely.
Does she bite?
No.
And if a stranger comes in?
Shes not aggressive, just wary.
Emily fell silent, then said,
Mum, the room is ready. Ive done everything. Its easier for me when youre nearby. If youre alone here I cant help but worry.
Eleanor set her cup down.
Will you take the dog?
Mum.
Emily, just answer.
A long pause.
Our flat isnt big. Kostasyour brotherdoesnt want pets. You know that.
I know, Eleanor said.
The subject lay untouched for the rest of the night.
Molly, as if sensing the tension, rose from her rug, trotted to the kitchen and curled at Eleanors feet on the chilly floor, stretching out.
Eleanor lowered her hand and scratched behind Mollys ear.
Can you hear me?
The conversation resurfaced in December. Emily arrived on a Saturday with bags, groceries, the resolve of someone who had made up her mind.
She stocked the fridge, washed the dishes, then sat at the table, hands clasped as one does when about to speak seriously.
Mum, lets not harbor any resentment.
Eleanor sat opposite, Molly sighing softly in the background.
Okay, Eleanor said.
Ive arranged everything. New curtains, a fresh mattress. Youll be close, Ill be calm. You wont be alone.
Im not alone.
Mum, Emilys eyes softened, the dog isnt just a companion. Its a responsibility you dont need right now. Youre spending your pension, braving the cold twice a day
I look better than I did a year ago.
You tire.
Everyone does.
Everyone gets weary.
Mum, Ive found a good shelter. Proper people, plenty of space. Molly would thrive there, better than in a onebed flat.
Molly let out another sigh, pads whispering on the floor as she padded back into the kitchen, sat between them.
Emily looked at the dog, then at her mother.
I hear you, Eleanor whispered. I hear everything.
She laid her hand atop Mollys head; the dog stayed still.
Do you remember how I used to work? Eleanor asked suddenly. You were little then, but perhaps you recall. I left at six in the morning, came back while you were still asleep. Your father used to say you didnt exist at home, only at the hospital.
Emily fell silent.
I never resented him. I understood people were worse off than I was. I was needed. Then dad died, I retired, and suddenly I felt useless. Youre grown now, you have your own life. Thats right. But I Emily, I simply didnt know what to do with myself.
She stared out the window. Outside it was December grey, early dusk, street lamps already glowing.
When I found Molly I thought, another problem. No strength, no money, health failing. Why bother? Yet on the third day she took a tiny piece of chicken from my hand. That sliver changed something. I wasnt sleepless because I was tired; I was sleepless because it mattered. If I didnt look after her, who would?
Molly nudged closer; Eleanor scratched her ear once more.
I started walking again. First to the bench, breathless. Now three laps round the house, and I barely notice. I cut my bloodpressure tablets in half a fortnight ago the doctor said it was okay. I met Valentina from the flat next door; we now stroll together sometimes. I bought decent boots for the first time in three years because I finally thought, why not? I used to think Id never need them.
She turned toward Emily.
And now Im out, Emily.
Emily watched her mother, wanting to say something but holding back.
I understand your fear, Eleanor said. That Ill fall, that therell be no one to call an ambulance, that winter is slippery, that Im alone. I feared that for my father in his last years.
Whats wrong about that? Emily murmured softly.
Nothing at all. Im simply not ready to be helpless yet. Eleanor offered a faint smile. Its early.
Emily lowered her gaze. They sat in silence for a long while.
Will you give her up? Emily asked finally.
Or move?
Emily nodded slowly, as if a weight was settling into place.
Then I want you to have an emergency alarm. A bracelet you press, and Ill be called instantly.
Alright.
And Ill visit once a week. Not to check, just to see you.
Id like that.
And, Emily gestured toward Molly, Ill try to accept her. I cant promise Ill love her, but Ill try.
Eleanor looked at her daughter.
Come here, she said.
Emily rose, stepped forward, and Eleanor embraced her tightly. Emily held the hug a heartbeat longer before returning it.
Molly slipped back to her rug, curling up.
Outside, night fell fully; the street lamps burned steady, snow dusted the windowsill.
Winter passed unnoticed.
Eleanor never realised when December gave way to January, then February, and she kept walking mornings and evenings, in frost and thaw, in snow and slush.
Molly walked beside her, her leg now fully healed; the vet declared her indistinguishable from a healthy dog.
The neighbourhood knew them. Valentina from the next block always set off at the same hour; they walked together, chatting about children, health, and, cautiously, politics. Old Mr. Jennings from the third floor would often stop and offer Molly biscuits, which she accepted with dignity. Children at the playground first shied away from the shepherd, then, once accustomed, ran up to pat her.
Eleanor left her walking stick by the door in February, forgetting it one day. When she returned, the stick lay there, as if reminding her it was still needed.
In March she called the local council to ask if the country lane to the cottage was open. It was, and she booked a seat on the bus.
Molly rode on the rear platform, eyes glued to the passing scenery.
The cottage was the same as ever an old house, last years leaves, bare apple trees. Eleanor walked the garden, feeling the soil, still cold but no longer frozen. She marked spots for foxgloves, petunias, dill and parsley just for the scent.
Molly bounded around like a puppy.
In April Emily arrived with Kostas. Kostas entered, saw Molly and tensed. Molly sniffed his hand, then backed away, as if checking he wasnt a threat.
Kostas exhaled.
Okay, he said cautiously, shes calm enough.
Smart, Eleanor replied.
Over tea Emily studied her mother, then whispered as Kostas stepped onto the balcony:
Mum, youve changed.
In a good way?
Yes.
Eleanor thought for a moment.
Im simply alive again, she said. Thats how it feels, I suppose.
Molly rested her head on Eleanors knee.
