I must have been five or six, not even in school yet, when, in the early 1990s, two pensioners moved into our village from the city Granny Vera and Uncle Alex. They bought the little house right across the lane from us low and squat, with just two windows facing the road, but with a huge back garden they refused to work, what with their age. Every day they’d take walks sometimes to the woods, other times down to the river, only going into the county town for groceries every now and then. They kept to themselves, living quietly, almost invisible. They never visited our house, only popping over twice a week for milk. We kept a hefty lot of animals back then but never had much spare, and yet Granny Vera would often slip me wee surprises a chocolate bar, a notebook, or a pound coin now and then. The old pair had never had children.
Perhaps three years slipped by with them in our village, when one cold, late winter’s evening, just as we’d switched off the telly and climbed into bed, there was a gentle tap at the window. Granny Vera stood outside and quietly told us that Alex had passed away.
We did what we could, helping her with the funeral.
She grieved terribly, fell ill and stopped leaving the house. We began visiting Granny Vera nearly every day, and every time, shed share stories of how she and Uncle Alex had lived together for 52 years, working all those years in a tough, noisy factory, and how, when they retired, they left their flat in the city to a niece and moved to the countryside, wanting peace and green spaces.
Spring came. Slowly Granny Vera began to get used to life on her own. She got better, and then one day called me to hers. In her front room, she showed me a tiny, silvery puppy crawling in a box. Id never really taken to dogs before, but the moment I saw that puppy, my heart skipped; I was smitten.
All these years later, I can still recall myself sitting on that old rug, gently stroking the sleeping puppy with a single finger, Granny Vera watching us, her toothless smile breaking out for the first time in ages.
We never had any pets, neither cats nor dogs. No little ones either… And, you see, its hard being all by yourself. I found this little chap this morning behind the market in the county town, in a skip. How could I leave him there, just look at that face?
I stared fixedly at the puppy, hardly daring to breathe.
What does he eat? Dyou think hes hungry? I almost burst into tears.
Ive warmed some milk, but he doesnt know how to lap from a dish needs to be fed with a bottle, but Ive not got one. Ill get one tomorrow, she said almost in a whisper, a little guilty.
I dashed home and, without thinking, snatched the dummy out of my baby sisters sleeping mouth.
Turned out the puppy was only a few days old. I pressed the teat into his mouth, squeezed out warm milk, terrified he might not survive.
For over a week, Granny Vera and I couldnt settle on a name. She chuckled and fancied calling him Rusty for his reddish ears, but I insisted on Whisper he was always so quiet, hardly made a peep. Eventually, Whisper stuck and suited him down to the ground.
All spring, nearly to summer, we nursed that puppy warming milk, making his food. When the weather turned nice, we let him out in the garden. Perhaps because hed never nursed from his mother, never even been licked clean, Whisper grew up rather frail, prone to sickness, but we did our best for him. Every day straight after school, Id run to Granny Veras, check on Whisper, then do my homework and help Mum, finishing the day back at Granny Veras, playing with Whisper like a kitten, with her watching, quietly smiling.
That summer Whisper grew, but it was clear he was a little breed, barely a foot tall. Id take him fishing, or walking the cows out to the common, and if I was busy, hed potter round Granny Veras kitchen. With Whisper there, she changed utterly, becoming even more caring, and her health picked up. She looked after him like a child cooking his meals, brushing his coat, even reading about how to care for dogs.
One year passed, then two, then five. Whisper lived at Granny Veras, but every morning hed trot over to our doorstep, wait for me to come out and follow me the whole three miles to school, and come fetch me again at two. In all weathers, rain or frost, Whisper was at my side. And so, nine years went by.
After junior secondary in the next village, anyone wanting more school had to go to the city college or stay in the county town and live at the boarding house. The family decided to send me to the city.
The morning I was to leave, I sat for ages on Granny Veras step, holding Whisper and sobbing.
Take him with you, if you cant bear to leave him, Granny Vera wept as well.
I cant take him, Granny, hes yours now. Take care of yourself, wont you. Mum will visit every day. Ill phone all the time.
When the boat the old river ferry set off, I stood on deck crying my eyes out, Whisper racing up and down the old mooring boards, panting, his eyes fixed on me, not understanding why I was leaving.
Life in the agricultural college swept me away. Days were filled with studying veterinary books and farm management. I kept myself to myself, except for the odd chat with a lad from our old school who lived next door in the halls.
Just before Christmas, as I packed to visit home, Mum rang. Granny Vera was gravely ill, she said, hadn’t left her bed for days, and Whisper wouldnt leave her side, even had his food bowl brought to her bed.
I returned early, and truly enough, Whisper sat vigil on a chair beside her bed, eyes tearful and whimpering, Granny Veras feeble hand stroking his little head. Both seemed thinner, frail. It nearly broke me watching that old woman and her little dog, her final comfort in a childless life.
When I left after Christmas, it was clear Id never see Granny Vera alive again. Whisper only followed me to the porch. He couldnt tear himself from her for a moment. I could almost feel his pain as I left.
Granny Vera died in February.
Would you expect a sixteen-year-old boy to mourn some old lady and her dog? Perhaps not. But not everyone grasps the loss of the only person truly close to you, or understands how a loyal dog tries to fill that void, destined to outlive you yet left to bear his own heartbreak one day.
I managed to come home only after exams, at the end of May. No one knew where Whisper had gone. Mum said at the funeral, hed run around the grave, even tried to leap in, only to be shooed away by the gravediggers. Whisper was taken home, and Dad even built him a cosy kennel, but he refused to live with us, wandering instead about Granny Veras empty house until May came, and then he disappeared altogether, before I was home from the city.
Half that summer I spent walking to nearby villages searching for him, showing his picture round, checking every yard in the county town. No one had seen him. When Granny Vera was buried, maybe he believed shed return and waited for her, but when she didnt, he went to find her. Thats what I told myself.
August arrived.
One day, our family drove out to Nossington Wood cemetery, fifty miles from our village. Id never even hoped to find Whisper that far away.
But as soon as we stepped out by the little country church, I saw him racing straight at me, ears flying, tongue hanging out. My Whisper.
I collapsed to my knees, weeping, crying his name, Whisper, oh my dear lad. Ive searched all summer for you, you silly thing and here you are.
He leapt up, licking my face, both of us in tears.
Afterwards, he danced around me, tail wagging fit to drop off, bounding high as my head. He was d irty, gaunt. I emptied the whole picnic out sandwiches, sausages, pastries and he ate greedily, never taking his eyes from mine.
Still wiping my tears, I heard a lady from the church ask, Is that your dog, then?
Thats our Whisper, yes, replied Mum, dabbing her tears.
Ive worked at this church a while. Noticed this little dog around early summer, always at the same grave. Hes dug that grave up something dreadful, she said, I had to fill it in again but he just keeps digging.
We all understood right away: that was Granny Veras grave.
We wandered the churchyard, visiting other relatives, Whisper never leaving my side, looking up at me the whole time.
Granny Vera and Alexs grave was all torn up from his digging, especially on Granny Veras side. Dad straightened the cross, Mum laid flowers, and I sat, cradling Whisper on my lap. He gazed at me, then at the grave, whining softly, licking my face now and then.
Dont force him to come back, Dad said, kneeling beside me. Let him choose. Maybe he wants to stay here.
I cant just leave him here, itll be autumn soon, then winter. Hes old, nearly ten. But if he wants to stay, hell just run across those miles back here anyway.
When we walked away, Whisper tore between us and the grave. At the last, as we got in the car, he stood by, looking long at the gravestones, before jumping in and settling on my knees.
My dear Whisper, Ill never leave you on your own again, I sobbed as we drove away.
