I was scared hed be taken back
The first time I saw him, he was sitting right by the wall. No barking, no begging, no approaching. Just sitting there, nose tucked into the corner. The other dogs were jumping, pawing at the barssome whining, others spinning in circles. But him? Not a sound.
“Hes been here a long time,” the volunteer said. “Eight years. Came in as a pup and never left. Twice he got adopted, twice he was brought back. Once after a day, the second time after a week. Didnt work out. Quiet. Doesnt play. Doesnt seem happy.”
I stood there, hands shoved in my pockets so they wouldnt shake.
“Whats his name?”
“First it was Buddy. Then Titch. Now we just call him by the name on his card: Archie. Doubt he cares, though. Only perks up at the sound of a food bag.”
I didnt even know why Id come. Just that after Mum passed, the flat felt too emptyno noise, no movement. Just the kettle in the morning, the radio in the kitchen. And silence.
My mates said I should get *something*. Fish, maybe. A parrot. Instead, I went to the shelter.
And there he was.
“Can I try?” I asked, hesitant.
The volunteer just nodded. Ten minutes later, we were at the exithim on a lead, me with papers in my pocket. No one thought itd last. Not even me.
He didnt pull. Didnt lunge ahead. Just walked beside me like he knew the way. Tripped on the stairs, slipped a little. I said, “Careful,” but no reactionno glance, no twitch of the ears. Just a deeper breath.
At home, I laid an old blanket by the radiator. Bowl of water, bowl of kibble. He sniffed it, sat, looked at me, then at the door. For a long time. Like he was checking if it was locked.
That night, I woke to creaking. He was lying by the door, awake. Head on his paws, eyes open. Like he was waiting to be taken back.
“Archie youre home. Its okay,” I whispered.
He didnt move.
Two weeks passed like that. He ate, walked, stayed silent. Never made a sound. Always looked me in the eye like he was asking, *”Can I stay?”*
He never got on the sofa. Not even when I patted the cushion, called him. Just stood beside me, then went back to the door to sleep.
“New dog?” asked Mrs. Wilkins, the neighbour, when she spotted us outside. “Handsome but he seems lost.”
I nodded. She was righthe didnt seem like he belonged. Like he wasnt from here, didnt *want* to be here.
He wouldnt eat from my hand. Wouldnt take treats. Only from the bowl, only if no one was watching.
I talked to him like a person.
“Mum always wanted a dog. But she was scared to get attached. Said she couldnt handle losing them. And now theres you. Shed have liked you. Knew how to handle broken soulsworked with them her whole life, at the care home.”
He blinked, like he understood.
“If you want stay. Im not waiting for anyone. And neither should you.”
Every morning, hed see me to the door. Sit quietly while I put my shoes on. No whining, no wagging. Just watching. And waiting.
When I came home, hed be on the threshold. Wouldnt eat or drink till he was sure I was really back.
“You think I wont come home? But I did. I always will.”
Loud noises startled himfireworks, kids shouting, motorbikes. Hed stiffen, tug the lead, retreat. Never ran. Just withdrew.
“Its okay, Archie. Just noise. Only noise.”
Tail tucked under, like he wanted to disappear.
Three weeks in, he barked for the first time. A rough, short sound. Scared us bothhe looked at me like he was apologising. Then, silence again.
The vet said his ears were fine. Just his nature. Maybe trauma.
“Hes wary. Watching. Waiting for you to give up on him.”
I nodded. Id already figured that.
When I was late, he wouldnt eat. Just lay by the door till I stepped inside.
“Youre scared, arent you? Think itll be like before?”
A twitch of his ears.
“I came home. I always will.”
A month passed. Then another. He stopped sleeping right by the doormoved closer to the room. Then the wardrobe. Then the armchair. Never the bedroom, though. Even if I left the door open and called.
I got used to him. Loved him. He wasnt cheerful or playfuljust *real*. Quiet, complicated, so careful. Looked at me like he understood everything.
“Archie, I didnt choose you. I just showed up. Now I cant imagine life without you.”
He lifted his head, sighed, put it back down.
Two and a half months in, he licked my hand. For no reason. Just did. I cried. He stepped back, confusedwhy the tears?
“Its joy. From you. You dont get it, but its happiness.”
He started staying closer. Withdrawing less.
Thenit happened.
Just an ordinary evening. Work, shopping bags. He followed me to the kitchen. I drank tea by the window. Then I heard him step into the bedroom.
Paw on the threshold. Stopped. Looked at me. I didnt move.
“Want to? Go on.”
He came slow. Sat by the bed. Thenclimbed up. Not the pillows. The edge. Lay down. Breathed in.
And slept.
Not tense. Justreal. Calm. Steady. His body relaxed, breathing even. *Home.*
“Youre really home now,” I whispered.
No reply. Just a twitch of his ear in his sleep.
After that, he didnt sleep by the door. Even when I lefthe stayed on the bed. Waited by the window. Because he knew: Id come back. Not *sometime*. Always.
On walks, he lingered more. Sniffed passersby, sometimes wagged. Once, let a kid pet him. Startled, but didnt run.
I bought him a new collar. A taghis name, my number. For the first time, properly his.
An older man recognised us in the park:
“That dogs from the Bristol shelter, isnt he?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember him as a pup. Always in the corner. Never went to anyone.”
“Hes got a home now,” I said, tightening the lead.
Now he knows where his bowl is. His blanket. Where his person is.
Hes started grumbling. In the morning, if breakfast is late. If the doorbell rings. If Im on the phone too long.
Hes started *living*.
And I thinkwhat if Id picked another dog? A cheerful one, an easy one?
But I went. And I saw *him*.
He saved me. I saved him.
Three months in. And only now does he really sleep beside me.
With a look in his eyes that says*love*. Real love.
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