Gary was sure of it: the renovation mattered more, his son would get over it. The dog got taken to the shelter, despite the boy’s begging. But eleven days later, Mary walked into her son’s room and found a drawing that turned everything upside down.
The bag sat by the front door. Two bags, really: one had bowls in it, the other had leftover food and a rubber ball that Buster had carried around the flat ever since he’d learned to walk.
Alex spotted them before he’d even taken off his trainers.
Buster nudged the boy’s knee with his nose and wagged his tail so hard he knocked the bag. A bowl clinked inside. His ginger fur smelled of the garden, autumn leaves, and something warm and doggy that always made Alex’s chest tighten. He crouched down, wrapping both arms around the dog. Buster froze, pressed his side against the checked shirt, and rested his muzzle on the boy’s shoulder.
His back left leg tucked awkwardly underneath. The dog had limped on it since he was a puppy, and Alex was used to steadying him by the flank when he sat down.
The kettle hummed in the kitchen. Mary stood by the stove, twisting her wedding ring on her finger. Quick, habitual motion, the way she always did when she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Gary sat at the table, back straight, hands folded in front of him. A coffee cup sat dead centre on the saucer.
“Mum. What’s that for?”
Mary didn’t turn. Her fingers on the ring sped up.
“Dad, why are there bags by the door?”
Gary finished his coffee in one gulp. Set the cup on the saucer so precisely it didn’t make a sound.
“Alex, we’ve decided. We’re taking the dog today.”
“Where?”
“To the shelter. Good conditions, I checked. Heated kennels, proper food.”
The boy looked at his mother. She stared out the window, where the grey October sky pressed down on the rooftops. The ring kept twisting.
“Mum?”
The kettle clicked off. Silence fell, and Alex could hear Buster breathing in the hallway.
“Mum, say something to him.”
Mary straightened the tea towel on the hook. Took it off, hung it again, even though it was already straight.
“Dad’s right, love. We need to do the renovation. It’ll be hard for the dog here…”
“Buster! His name’s Buster!”
“It’ll be hard for Buster here. Paint, dust, tools on the floor. He might get ill.”
She spoke in a flat tone, each word sounding like it wasn’t said for the first time. Like she and Gary had rehearsed the night before, while Alex slept.
The boy gripped the edge of the chair. His knuckles went white.
“I’ll walk him three times a day. I’ll keep him in my room. He won’t cause any trouble. Please.”
Gary stood up. The chair scraped against the linoleum.
“I said, that’s that. We’re leaving in half an hour.”
“Please. Please, don’t.”
His voice turned thin. Not childish, but transparent, as if the words passed through the boy without sticking. Buster scraped his claws on the tiles, limped into the kitchen, and sat down, leaning against Alex’s leg. He put his nose on the boy’s knee.
And stayed still. The dog’s eyes were brown with flecks of ginger, looking up calmly. He didn’t understand. He trusted everyone in this house.
Mary squeezed her eyes shut. For a second, maybe two. Then she opened them and reached into her pocket for the car keys.
Alex pulled on his jacket.
“Alex, better for you to stay home. You don’t need to come.”
“No, I’m coming!” Alex was almost crying.
The car smelled of petrol and warm plastic. The sun hadn’t come out, and the town outside the window looked like it had been drawn in grey pencil on wet paper. Buster lay on the back seat, resting his head on Alex’s lap. The boy didn’t cry. He sat upright, stroking the ginger head, his fingers moving slowly, evenly, as if memorising every bump, every swirl of fur.
Gary glanced once in the rear-view mirror. Quickly looked away.
Mary drove and thought about the wallpaper in the hallway. About the rollers, the colour “ivory” they’d picked out the Saturday before at the DIY shop. In a month the flat would be bright. Clean. No dog hair on the sofa, no claws clicking in the mornings.
The shelter was on the edge of town, behind the garages. A grey building with a metal door, behind which it smelled of bleach, wet concrete, and something sour and thick that made you want to breathe through your mouth. Barking came from deeper inside. Not loud, not angry. Lonely, like someone calling out who no longer believed they’d be heard.
A woman in a green apron came out to meet them. She smiled at Buster, scratched behind his ear.
“Good boy, ginger one. We’ll sort him out, don’t worry.”
Alex held the lead. With both hands, tight, so the leather strap cut into his palms. His fingers had gone red from the pressure.
“Alex, give it here.”
His father held out his hand. A big palm, smelling of engine oil, open in front of the boy’s face.
Alex looked at the lead. Then at Buster. Then back at the lead.
And let go. Slowly.
The woman took the lead and led Buster down the corridor. The dog limped on his back left leg, and his claws clicked on the tiles, the sound echoing because the corridor was long and empty. At the turn, Buster looked back.
The woman went around the corner. The clicking grew softer, softer. Then stopped.
On the drive back, the boy sat behind the driver’s seat. Where Buster had been ten minutes earlier. The upholstery still held the smell: warm fur, garden, autumn leaves. Alex pressed his cheek against the seat and closed his eyes.
Mary reached for the radio. Gary shook his head. They drove home for twenty minutes. Not a single word.
At home, Alex took off his shoes, walked past the kitchen, and locked himself in his room. The door clicked softly. Just closed.
Mary put away the empty bags, folded them neatly, shoved them into the bin. Then she saw the bowl.
A red plastic bowl with teeth marks along the rim. Buster had chewed it as a puppy, back when he didn’t know bowls weren’t for that. Mary picked it up, held it in her hands. The plastic was light and smooth, and the tooth marks felt rough under her fingers. She set the bowl back on the floor.
The next day, they noticed strange things.
Alex didn’t ask what was for dinner. Didn’t turn on the telly. Didn’t take his diary out of his backpack. He came home from school, took off his shoes, and went to his room. Quiet, like a shadow on the wall.
Mary knocked.
“Alex, do you want pasta? With cheese, the way you like it.”
The bed creaked inside. That was all.
She stood at the door for half a minute. Listened to the silence. Then walked away.
That evening, Gary said he’d get used to it. Kids forget quickly. In a week he’d be running around like before. He said it confidently, standing in the hallway, where a scratch on the wall still showed from Buster’s claws during the first month.
On the fifth day, the teacher rang. Her voice was careful, like someone stepping on thin ice.
“Everything all right at home?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Alex doesn’t answer in class. At all. He just sits, staring out the window. At break he stands alone by the wall. Kids approach him, but he stays silent.”
Mary bit her lip.
“We just… we rehomed our dog. Took him to a shelter. He’ll get used to it.”
The teacher paused. A few seconds, and in that pause Mary heard more than any words could say. Then the voice on the line said:
“I see.”
That “I see” hung in the flat all evening. Like the smell of paint not yet opened, but already there.
On the seventh day, Alex stopped coming down for dinner. Mary put a plate out. Collected it untouched. The pasta went cold and formed a skin, and that was somehow unbearable.
Gary bought rollers and primer. Tore off the old wallpaper in the hallway. Underneath, the walls were grey, stained with old glue, with a crack from floor to ceiling that the picture of a sailboat used to hide. It smelled damp. It didn’t look nice. And the silence wasn’t the kind he’d planned.
The red bowl still sat in the kitchen. Mary couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Three times she picked it up, three times she put it back. The fourth time she turned it upside down. Then she set it right again.
One day, Mary went into her son’s room while he was at school. Wanted to tidy up.
On the desk lay a drawing.
A house with a triangular roof and a chimney with smoke coming out. Normal, like any kid would draw. Next to it, a boy: stick legs, round head, arms out. And next to the boy, a ginger blob with four legs and a curly tail. The boy and the dog were drawn brightly, in red felt-tip and orange pencil, pressed hard so the paper was dented.
But the house was empty. Windows without curtains, door wide open. Inside, no figures, no furniture. White.
No mum. No dad. Just white space behind the open door.
Mary sat on her son’s bed. She picked up the drawing, held it closer. At the bottom, under the house, in crooked little letters: “Buster I’ll come.”
No comma. No full stop. A promise written by a hand that hadn’t yet learned to form letters evenly.
The ring on her finger pressed so hard that Mary took it off. Put it on the desk next to the drawing. And she sat there, staring at the wall, because she wasn’t thinking about wallpaper. Or the colour “ivory.” Or dog hair or claws.
She was thinking that her son had drawn a house where she didn’t exist.
That evening, Mary put the drawing in front of Gary. Didn’t explain anything. Just set it on the table, next to his plate.
He looked at it for a long time. Then pushed his plate away.
“We’ll get him back.”
Mary blinked.
“Buster. Tomorrow morning.”
And he said it, not her. She’d expected to have to argue, persuade, jab her finger at the drawing. But Gary was staring at the empty house without people, and something moved across his face, like his muscles didn’t know what expression to form.
“Tomorrow. First thing.”
Mary nodded. She wanted to say “thank you,” but the word stuck. There was nothing to thank him for. This wasn’t a gift. It was an attempt to fix what they’d broken themselves.
In the morning they drove to the shelter. The same metal door. The same smell of bleach and wet concrete. The woman came out to meet them, this time in a blue apron, but the face was the same.
Buster recognised them from the doorway. He lunged at the kennel gate, whimpered, wagged his tail so hard his whole body shook. He’d lost weight: ribs showed through the ginger fur, and his back left leg tucked worse than before. He limped toward them faster than he should.
Gary took the lead. The same one, leather, worn. His hand wrapped around the strap familiar.
At home, Alex sat in his room. Door shut.
Claws clicked on the hallway tiles. Softly. Unevenly, with a skip every fourth step.
The bedroom door opened.
The boy stood in the doorway. Buster rushed at him, pressed his nose into Alex’s stomach, licked his hand, his knee, his hand again. His tail thumped against the wall.
Alex sank to the floor. His fingers buried in the ginger fur, which smelled of the shelter, bleach, something foreign. But beneath that smell was another, older, real, the one that always made his chest tighten.
He spoke his first words in days:
“Buster.”
Then he looked up. At his mother. At his father.
Mary crouched beside him.
“Love…”
He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t lean in either. He just sat on the floor, hugging the dog, and looked at them as if seeing them for the first time. And he wasn’t sure he recognised them.
Buster licked the boy’s chin and calmed down. Lay beside him, pressing his warm side close.
Mary poured kibble into the red plastic bowl with teeth marks around the rim. Buster limped to the kitchen, claws clicking, and ate hungrily, quickly. Alex sat beside him.
And Gary stood in the hallway, where the stripped walls smelled of damp and old glue. The roller lay in the corner, covered in dust. The primer had dried in the can. The crack from floor to ceiling was still there.
From the kitchen came the sound of the bowl scraping against the floor and the dog eating.
Gary stood and looked at the walls. The renovation hadn’t moved forward. And now it didn’t matter whether it did. Because in this house, the thing that needed fixing was something else entirely.
