Hey, love let me tell you whats been happening with 14yearold Michael Harper lately, because it feels like the whole world has been giving him the cold shoulder, or at least refusing to understand him.
Oi, that little scamp again! mutters Aunt Clare from the third landing as she darts across the courtyard. One mothers doing all the raising look what its got us to.
Michael shuffles past, hands stuffed in the pockets of his ripped jeans, pretending not to hear her though he does. His mums been pulling late shifts again. On the kitchen table theres a sticky note that reads, Meatballs in the fridge, warm them up. And then silence. Always that heavy quiet.
Hes just walked home from school, where the teachers have once more had a chat about his behaviour. As if he doesnt get that hes become a problem for everyone. He does get it. So whats the point of it all?
Hey, lad! calls Uncle Victor, the bloke from the flat below. Seen a limping dog around here? We ought to get it out of the way.
Michael pauses and looks. Sure enough, next to the rubbish bins lies a dog. Not a puppy a fullgrown, russetandwhite mutt, motionless except for those sharp, sad eyes that seem to take in everything.
Wholl have a look at him? Aunt Clare hisses. Hes probably sick.
Michael steps closer. The dog doesnt move, just gives a feeble wag of its tail. One hind leg is badly torn, the flesh crusted over with blood.
Whats the hurry? Victor snaps. Grab a stick and chase it off!
Something snaps inside Michael.
Dont even think about touching him! he shouts, shielding the dog with his own body. Hes not going to hurt anyone!
Victor raises an eyebrow. Well, look at you, a little guardian now.
Im protecting him! Michael sits down beside the mutt, slowly reaching out. The dog sniffs his fingers and gives a soft lick.
A warm rush spreads through Michaels chest the first time in ages someones actually treated him kindly.
Come on, he whispers to the dog. Come with me.
Back at his flat, Michael cobbles together a makeshift bed from old jackets in the corner of his room. Mums not due home until evening, so no ones going to shout or throw the problem out.
The wound looks nasty. Michael fires up the internet, reads a few articles on firstaid for animals, squinting at the medical jargon but memorising every step.
Need to rinse it with hydrogen peroxide, he mutters, rummaging through the home firstaid kit. Then dab a bit of iodine on the edges. Gently, so it doesnt hurt.
The dog lies still, trusting Michael with the injured leg, staring at him with gratitude something no ones ever done for him before.
What should I call you? Michael asks while bandaging the paw. Youre a redheadhow about Rusty?
A low whine answers, as if the name suits him.
Evening rolls around and Mum comes home. Michael braces for a lecture, but she just eyes Rusty, runs her hand over the bandage.
Did you do that yourself? she asks quietly.
Yeah. Found the instructions online.
What about food?
Ill sort something out.
She watches her son for a long moment, then looks at Rusty, whos happily licking her hand.
Well take you to the vet tomorrow, see whats up with that leg. Got a name for him yet?
Rusty, Michael replies, eyes shining.
For the first time in months theres no wall of misunderstanding between them.
The next morning Michael gets up an hour early. Rusty struggles to stand, winces with every step.
Stay down, Michael says soothingly. Ill fetch some water and get you something to eat.
Theres no dog food left, so he chops up his last meatball and soaks a slice of bread in milk. Rusty gulps it down greedily, licking every crumb.
At school Michael doesnt get into it with the teachers this time; his mind is only on Rusty is he in pain? Is he bored?
Youre odd today, the form tutor remarks, eyebrows raised.
Michael just shrugs. No point in spilling the whole story; theyd laugh.
After school he darts home, ignoring the annoyed glances from neighbours. Rusty greets him with a hopeful bark hes already managing on three legs.
Ready for a walk, mate? Michael says, fashioning a leash from an old rope. Take it easy on that leg.
In the courtyard a small drama unfolds. Aunt Clare spots them and nearly spits out her tea.
What have you done, dragging that dog home? Have you lost your mind, Michael?
Whats the big deal? he replies calmly. Im looking after him. Hell be fine.
A neighbour pipes up, How are you affording the vet bills? Stealing from Mum?
Michael clenches his fists but holds back. Rusty leans against his leg, feeling his tension.
No, Im using my own savings. Ive been putting aside a bit from my breakfasts.
Victor shakes his head. Kid, youve taken on a living soul. Its not a toy. Hell need food, medicine, walks.
From then on every day starts with a stroll. Rustys leg heals fast, the limp almost gone. Michael teaches him commands patiently, hour after hour.
Sit! Good boy! Give paw! Thats it!
Neighbours watch from their windows some shake their heads, some smile. Michael only sees Rustys loyal eyes.
He changes, slowly but surely. The shouting stops, he helps around the house, his grades improve. He finally has a purpose, and its just the beginning.
Three weeks later the worst nightmare rolls around.
Hes out with Rusty after dusk when a pack of stray dogs bursts from behind the garages five or six snarling mutts with eyes like coals. The leader, a massive black dog, growls and steps forward.
Rusty instinctively retreats behind Michael. The injured leg still aches, but the pack smells weakness.
Back! Michael yells, whipping the leash. Get out of here!
The pack circles, the black leader snarling louder, ready to pounce.
Michael! a voice cries from above. Run! Throw the dog away and get out of there!
Its Aunt Clare, leaning out of her flat window, with a few other neighbours peeking over.
Dont be a hero, lad! Victor shouts. Hes lame, he wont get away!
Michael glances at Rusty. The dog trembles but doesnt bolt, clinging to his owners leg as if saying, Im with you.
The black mutt lunges first. Michael instinctively shields himself, but the bite lands on his shoulder. Sharp teeth tear his jacket, scraping down to skin.
Even with the hurting leg, Rusty throws himself at the leader, sinking teeth into the other dogs leg and hanging on with his whole body.
A chaotic brawl erupts. Michael kicks, punches, tries to protect Rusty from the snarls. He takes cuts, bruises, but refuses to back down.
Lord, whats happening! Aunt Clare screams from the window. Victor, do something!
Victor scrambles down the stairs, grabbing a stick, then a piece of rebar whatever he can find.
Hang on, son! he yells. Im coming!
Just as Michael feels the pack closing in, a familiar voice shouts, Get them out of here!
Mum bursts out of the stairwell with a bucket of water, dousing the dogs. They scatter, yelping.
Victor, help me! she cries.
Victor rushes in with the stick, and a few other residents pour down from the upper flats. Seeing the odds turn, the stray dogs retreat, disappearing into the night.
Michael lies on the pavement, clutching Rusty. Both are covered in blood, shaking, but alive.
Love, you gave me a fright, his mum says, sitting beside him, checking his wounds. How scared were you?
I couldnt just drop him, Mum, Michael whispers. I didnt have a choice.
I understand, she replies softly.
Aunt Clare steps into the yard, eyes wide, as if seeing her nephew for the first time.
Boy, you couldve been killed because of a dog, she stammers.
Its not because of a dog, Victor interjects. Hes a friend. Do you get that, Clare?
She nods, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Lets get home, Mum says. We need to tend both of your injuries.
Michael hauls Rusty up, the dog whimpering but wagging his tail faintly, glad his owners there.
Hold on a sec, Victor calls, youll take him to the vet tomorrow?
Well go together, Michael answers.
Ill drive. Ill pay for the treatment. Hes a proper hero.
Michael looks surprised. Thanks, Uncle Victor. Ill pay you back later.
Dont worry about it now just keep looking after him. Were proud of you, alright?
The neighbours nod silently.
A month later, on an ordinary October evening, Michael walks back from the local vets clinic, where hes started helping out on weekends. Rusty trots beside him, his leg fully healed, the limp almost gone.
Aunt Clare! she calls, waving a bag of premium dog food. For Rusty its fancy, a bit pricey, but youve been taking such good care of him.
Thanks, Clare, Michael says, genuinely grateful. Weve got our own supply, but Ill take it anyway. Im earning a bit at the clinic now Dr. Anna Whitaker pays me.
Keep it, youll need it later, she replies with a grin.
At home Mum is cooking dinner. She looks up, smiling at her son.
Hows the clinic? Dr. Whitaker happy with you?
She says my hands are steady, and Ive got patience, Michael says, ruffling Rustys ears. Maybe Ill become a vet one day. Seriously thinking about it.
Studies going okay? Mum asks.
Fine. Even Mr. Patel from physics praised me for being focused.
She nods. Over the past month Michaels transformed no more shouting, he pitches in around the house, his grades have gone up, and he finally has a goal.
You know, she says, Victors coming by tomorrow. He wants to offer you another odd job helping at his friends breeding centre.
Really? Can I bring Rusty? Michael asks, hopeful.
I think so. Hes practically a working dog now.
That night Michael sits in the back garden with Rusty, practising a new command guard. The dog follows every cue, eyes locked on him.
Victor drops by, sits on the garden bench.
Youll definitely go to the breeding centre tomorrow? he asks.
Yeah, with Rusty.
Then get some rest. Youve got a big day ahead.
After Victor leaves, Michael leans back, Rusty rests his head on Michaels knees, sighing contentedly.
Theyve found each other, and none of them will ever be alone again.
Take care, love, and let me know what you think of the story. Talk soon!
