In the dream, the neighbour’s voice came drifting from the kitchen like a wisp of steam. “Thomas, will you have a cup of tea?” It was Mrs. Dorothy, his neighbour, always bustling in with pork pies or a bowl of broth. “Living on your own, you are,” she’d say. “A man must eat.”
He waved a hand without turning. “Not now, Dot.”
A year. One whole year.
And he still couldn’t forgive himself. Damn that day.
He’d been in a rush – had to drive into town to see the solicitor about his late wife’s papers. Nerves frayed, head pounding. And then Bess, his dog.
A mongrel with knowing eyes and a perpetually wagging tail. After Anne died, Bess was the only living thing left. The only creature that greeted him at the door, that thrilled at his presence.
That morning on their walk, she kept twisting around his feet. Sniffing at the kerb, doubling back. The lead stretched taut, then slackened.
“Bess, for heaven’s sake, stay still!” he’d snapped. He yanked the lead. Hard.
She yelped.
But he didn’t stop. He kept walking, furious at everything. At himself.
They halted at the main road. Lorries thundered past; cars streaked by. He pulled out his phone to check the time. And then –
A jerk. The carabiner slipped open. The empty lead hung from his hand.
Bess bolted across the tarmac.
He shouted. Ran after her, waving his arms, flagging down vehicles. But she vanished into the roadside bushes. Simply dissolved.
He searched for three days, pacing the verge, calling her name, whistling.
Then he gave up.
He decided she was gone – hit, frozen in the woods. His fault. He’d yelled, he’d yanked. This was his punishment.
Then yesterday, the phone rang.
“Hello, is this Victor Smith? Did you own a dog?”
A woman’s voice. Young. Tense.
“I did.”
“We’re from the Hope Shelter. Someone brought in a dog. The microchip had your number. Could you come by?”
His heart dropped.
“What kind of dog?”
“A ginger mongrel. Old. Limping on a back leg.”
He was silent. Clutching the phone until his knuckles whitened.
“Will you come?” the girl repeated.
“I’ll come.”
Now he stood by the window, unable to move.
Car keys on the table. Coat in the hall. Barely an hour’s drive.
But he was afraid.
Afraid it wasn’t her.
And afraid it was.
The shelter met him with barking. Dozens of voices – thin, hoarse, desperate – woven into a single howl. Victor pushed the car door shut and stood frozen. His hands trembled.
*Fool,* he thought. *Why shiver like a leaf?*
But his feet seemed glued to the concrete.
“Victor Smith?” A girl stepped through the gate. Young, in a worn jacket, hair tucked beneath a knitted cap. “I’m Sarah. We spoke yesterday.”
He nodded. His throat locked – words wouldn’t come.
“Come. She’s in the far kennel.”
They walked past cages. Dogs threw themselves at the mesh, whining, scraping the bars with their paws. Victor stared at the ground. Snow crunched underfoot.
“You know,” Sarah said, “she was brought in just two days ago. Relatives of an old lady. The lady passed away, and they couldn’t keep the dog.”
“Old lady?”
“Yes. Doris Williams. Lived by the main road in a little cottage. She found the dog about a year ago. Healed her. The leg was broken – probably clipped by a car. The old lady nursed her back, but never let her out of the yard. Afraid she’d run onto the road again.”
Victor stopped.
“Was there a collar with a number?”
“Yes, but the digits had worn off. Mrs. Williams tried to call, but always got the wrong number – or something. She figured the owner had abandoned the dog. Not searching.”
Victor shoved his hands into his pockets. She’d been alive all this time. And he’d stopped looking after three days.
“Here,” Sarah said, halting at the last kennel. “She’s in here.”
Victor lifted his eyes.
And saw his Bess.
She sat in the corner on a ragged blanket. Ginger fur had dulled; her muzzle was grey. One hind leg tucked under – she still limped.
The dog lifted her head. Looked at him. Then froze.
Victor stepped forward. Another step. His fingers clutched the cold bars.
“Bess?” he rasped. His voice cracked.
The dog jerked. Ears pricked.
“It’s me. My girl, it’s me.”
She rose. Limping, she took a few steps toward the gate. Stopped a foot away.
Just stood and watched.
Victor dropped to his knees in the snow. Reached through the bars.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “Sorry, you daft ginger thing. I shouted that day. I yanked you. Then I gave up searching. Thought you were dead. I was scared, you see?”
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
The dog stepped forward. Another step. Cautious, as if checking he wouldn’t vanish.
Victor held still. Even stopped breathing.
Then Bess came close. Pushed a cold nose into his palm. Licked his fingers.
“Shall I open?” Sarah whispered. She stood nearby, wiping a tear.
Victor nodded.
The lock clicked. The kennel door swung open.
And Bess, limping awkwardly, threw herself at him. Pressed against his leg and wagged her tail furiously.
Victor wrapped his arms around her. Buried his face in the ginger fur.
“We’re going home,” he murmured. “Hear me? Home. And I’ll never let you go again. Never.”
Bess whimpered softly.
And wagged her tail harder.
“She barely eats,” Sarah said quietly, crouching beside him. “Those first days she refused. We thought, you know… it happens. A dog comes to a shelter and just fades. Especially old ones. They bond deeper than we realise.”
“I know,” Victor croaked. “I always knew.”
He stroked Bess’s head. She opened her eyes – cloudy, tired – and looked at him. In that look was everything.
“Sarah,” Victor lifted his gaze, “will she… last? I mean, how long?”
The girl sighed.
“The vet says her heart is weak. The leg healed wrong – that’s why she limps. Barely any teeth left. But, Mr. Smith, I’ve worked here three years. I’ve seen all sorts. Dogs don’t die from sickness. They die from grief. If there’s someone to live for…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
Victor understood.
He rose carefully.
“Let’s go home, girl,” he whispered. “Dot’s made meat pies. You like pies, don’t you? And you’ll sleep on the sofa. My sofa – the one I always told you off for. No more. Sleep wherever you like. Just don’t leave, okay?”
Bess licked his cheek.
And Victor felt – for the first time in a year – something inside him thaw.
“Thank you,” he said to Sarah.
“Take care of her,” she nodded. “And yourself.”
Victor settled Bess on the passenger seat, wrapped in an old jacket. He got behind the wheel.
Started the car and drove home.
Dorothy gasped when she saw them at the door.
“Tom! That’s – that’s Bess?!”
“It is,” Victor lifted the dog gently into the hall. “She’s back.”
“Good heavens,” the neighbour clapped her hands, knelt down. “My little girl! So thin. Tom, bring her to the kitchen – I’ll give her something to eat right away.”
Bess walked slowly through the flat, limping, sniffing every corner, every familiar object. Then she returned to Victor and lay at his feet.
“That’s right,” he nodded. “You stay with me.”
Dorothy fed Bess – small amounts, carefully, so as not to hurt her. The dog ate greedily, gulping, as if afraid it would be taken away.
“Easy, easy,” Victor soothed, stroking her back. “It’s not going anywhere. Eat slowly.”
That evening Bess climbed onto the sofa. Victor didn’t chase her off – as he’d promised. He just covered her with a warm blanket and sat beside her.
He turned on the television, but didn’t watch. Only stroked the ginger fur and stayed silent.
And Bess rested her head on his lap and closed her eyes.
Her tail twitched – just a little, but it twitched.
Victor stared out the window. Snow fell, just as it had a year ago. Just as it had on that cursed day by the road.
But now everything was different.
For the first time in a year, he wasn’t afraid of tomorrow.
Because he knew: Bess would wake up beside him. And the day after. And for as many days as they were given.
