“Come on, lad, lets go home,” murmured Geoffrey Whitmore as he stroked the scruffy little mongrels head. “Shes not coming back, no matter how much we wish it.”
The dog, called Pip, lifted his gaze and stared into his masters eyes. He understood. His beloved mistress was gone. No matter how long he stood by the gravestone, she wouldnt return to scratch his ears or sneak him a biscuit under the tablehis favourite, though Geoffrey always scolded her for it. With a deep sigh, the dog fell into step beside the old man as they made their way to the bus stop. It was a long walk, but neither was in any hurry. They moved slowly, both lost in memories of the woman they had loved most in the world.
***
Geoffrey had spent forty-eight happy years with his Lizziethats what he always called her. A good life, by all accounts. Only, theyd never been blessed with children.
“Must not be meant for us,” Lizzie used to say. “Maybe we werent fit to raise them, so they never trusted us with any up there.”
Thats why she refused to adopt, though Geoffrey wouldnt have minded. He didnt press her. What was the point if her heart wasnt in it? For years, they held out hope. Then, one day, Lizzie brought home a scrawny stray. That was Rufus, their first pet, who filled the void left by children. When Rufus passed from old age, they wept bitterly and swore never to have another dogthe loss was too painful. But two years later, Lizzie carried home a tiny kitten.
“Cats live longer,” shed smiled. “Muffin might outlive us both.”
Muffin gave them twenty happy years, but alas, even cats dont live as long as humans. Burying their “child” broke Lizzies heart, and soon after, she fell ill. That grief, Geoffrey reckoned, had worn her down. He suggested another kitten, but Lizzie wouldnt hear of it.
“Were old, love. Soon enough, itll be our timewhy leave another creature alone? No, Geoff, just us now.”
And he agreed, as he always did with her. He loved his Lizzie dearly.
Two years passed.
One afternoon, strolling through the park, they stopped at an ice-cream van. He handed Lizzie her favourite vanilla cone, and they turned toward the fountain when a rustling noise caught their attention. Behind the van, a bony little puppy was gnawing at a discarded wrapper. He was so thin his head seemed too big for his body. Spotting them, the pup dropped the wrapper and staredaccusing, pleading.
“Geoffrey,” Lizzie whispered urgently, gripping his arm, “promise mepromise youll live at least ten more years!”
He was stunned, but the look in her eyes left no room for refusal. “I promise,” he said without thinking.
She smiled, scooped up the scraggly thing, and held him close. Thats how Pip came into their lives.
Geoffrey sighed heavily and looked at Pip. The dog lifted his head, meeting his masters gaze as if reading his thoughts: *Yes, thats exactly how it happened.*
They had five more happy years together, all thanks to that scruffy bundle of joy called Pip. Then, three months ago, Lizzie was gone.
A quiet groan escaped Geoffreys lips, and Pip let out a mournful howl.
“Were orphans now, Pip,” Geoffrey murmured.
“Oooowwooooo!” the dog wailed in reply.
They visited Lizzies grave oftenit was all they could do.
Now, at the bus stop, Geoffrey sank onto the bench. A dull ache settled in his chestnot sharp, but persistent. *Just get home, have a cuppa, youll feel better.* He rubbed his chest absently. Pip, instead of sitting beside him, paced in tight circles, whining and nudging his knee.
“Its alright, lad. Heres the bus. Lets go.”
They boarded. The ride would take forty minutes, but the pain grew worse. Pip pressed his head hard into Geoffreys lap.
“Nearly halfway now, Pip,” he managed.
Thensharp agony. His breath hitched, darkness swallowed his vision, and he slumped forward. Pip erupted into frantic barking.
“Someone helpthis mans ill!”
The bus screeched to a halt. Passengers crowded around, calling for an ambulance. Pip sat quietly now, eyes pleading with strangers: *Help him, please.*
When the paramedics loaded Geoffrey into the ambulance, Pip knew he couldnt follow. Hed seen these vans before. As it sped off, he hurried back onto the bus. He thought it would chase after his master.
“Dont kick the dog out,” a woman said to the conductor. “He knows the way homeIve seen them on this route before.”
So they let him stay.
When the bus looped back to the cemetery stop, Pip stepped off. He stood motionless, nose pointed toward the hospital, eyes seeing nothing of the world around himonly the fight within.
He *felt* itthe doctors alone wouldnt be enough. So he ran to the one person who could still help, even beneath the earth.
Modern folk dont believe in things they cant measureenergy, silent pleas across distances. But if our pets could speak, theyd tell us otherwise.
***
Geoffrey walked a long, dark corridor. Ahead, on sunlit grass, stood Lizzieyoung again. He reached for her, ready to cross over
Then she scowled.
“I wont have a liar! You promised me ten years! Its only been five! Youd abandon Pip? Go back!”
His hand dropped. He could never refuse Lizzie. So he turned and trudged back into the dark.
“Hes got a pulse,” the doctor exhaled.
***
A month later, Geoffrey was discharged. He felt fineexcept for one gnawing worry: *Where is Pip? Is he alive? How do I find him?*
Unbeknownst to him, Pip had become something of a local legend. After helping Lizzie pull Geoffrey from deaths grip, the dog knew he just had to wait. His master *would* comewhere else but the bus where theyd last been together? So Pip rode the Number 8 bus to the cemetery every day. Word spread fast. Drivers and passengers fed him; nobody shooed him away.
Dogs know how to wait. And Pip waited.
***
Geoffrey stepped into the silent flat. Withered flowers, a stale bin smell. His foot knocked over Pips empty bowl with a clatter.
“Pipwhere *are* you?” he cried.
At that very moment, on a Number 8 bus, a dog barked wildly.
*Here! Im here!*
The next day, after plastering “Lost Dog” posters everywhere, Geoffrey slumped at home, willing the phone to ring. It didnt. He pulled the blanket over his head. *Why did I survive? For what?*
Ah, Geoffrey, Geoffreywho reads posters in the internet age? The towns online forums were *buzzing* about the dog riding the buses. But Geoffrey had no computer, no internethe and Lizzie had never needed it.
The following day, he took the bus to the cemetery. He had to tell Lizzie about Pipit hurt, but he owed her the truth.
Slumped in his seat, he caught snippets of two women chatting:
“always carry dog treats now, just in case. Poor thing.”
“Tried taking him homewouldnt budge.”
“Course not! Hes waiting for his master.”
“Months nowmaybe the owners dead. My grandkids say its all over the web”
“Excuse me,” Geoffrey cut in, voice trembling, “what dog?”
“What dog? You new here? A man took ill on the bus a month backambulance took him, and his dogs ridden the route ever since. Poor soul must be dead”
“Not dead,” Geoffrey whispered. “*Im* his owner. Just out of hospital.”
Just then, a second Number 8 bus pulled up opposite. Pip sat inside, nose pressed to the glass.
“Thats him!” a woman shrieked. “Stop the busthe owners here!”
Chaos erupted. Passengers spilled onto the road, blocking traffic. Drivers, ready to curse, fell silent and stepped out too.
And there, in the middle of the street, sat Geoffrey Whitmore, arms wrapped tight around Pip, who licked his face wildly.
By weeks end, the whole town was talking. Phones rang, posts flooded social media: *The dog waitedand his master came back!*
In that fleeting moment of shared joy, something long forgotten flickereda warmth, a unity, lost in this world where everyone fends for themselves.
