On a Tuesday afternoon, my mum blocked my number. All at once, instead of the usual ringing, there was only a robotic voice: This number is unavailable. It wasnt some lesson pulled from a parenting book; it was desperation. She was tired of listening to my monthly pleaJust send a little, enough to last till Monday.
I was twenty-two and believed the world owed me something. Working for an ordinary salary seemed beneath me; I was waiting for the big break. Meanwhile, I lived off my mums bank transfers. Money vanished on pointless things: video games, nights out, takeawaysbecause cooking for myself felt far too much effort.
When the landlord realised I had no intention of paying the rent, he simply pointed me to the door. All I had left was my familys old Ford Focus and Olivermy English Pointer. Oliver, more companion than pet, waited patiently for me to return from whatever reckless escapade Id gotten into.
The first night in the car, I still thought it was temporary. By the third, it was clear: the food had run out. Only a handful of coins jingled in my pocket. I bought a Pot Noodle for myself and the cheapest dog food for Oliver from the corner shop. In the morning, he couldnt get up. His bodyaccustomed to a special diethad failed him. He lay on the back seat, struggling to breathe, gazing at me with such sorrow that it felt like he was saying goodbye. English Pointers have sensitive stomachs, and I, in my selfishness, had skimped on decent food for him a week ago.
I drove to Mums in our little town, hoping we could just go inside and be fed, warmed, cared for. But the locks had been changed. I stood under her window, dialling her numbersilence. Messages sentno reply.
I perched on the edge of the curb, feeling utterly helpless. The lady from the ground floor emerged, holding a bag.
Sarah wanted you to have this.
Inside were a supply of special dog food and medicine for Oliver. No cash, no note. Just the parcela sign she worried for the dog, but had nothing left to say to me.
I wanted to take Oliver to a vet, but the car chose the worst time to give upthe battery died completely. No money for a taxi, no friends nearby. The vet surgery was several neighbourhoods away.
I carried Oliver in my arms. Thirty kilograms. There was nothing cinematic about it; my breath caught, sweat poured, and I paused often, knees buckling from the strain. People sidestepped me as if I were a vagrant. By the time I reached the clinics doorstep, I collapsed onto a bench, my dog heavy across my lap.
The vet, an old acquaintance of my fathers, examined Oliver, then looked me over.
Did you carry him all the way?
The car wouldnt start, I rasped.
Need a job? My mates looking for lads down at the scrapyard. Its not glamorous, but he pays fair. Give it a goyoull manage. Or dont, and Ill take Oliver myself. Youll ruin him otherwise.
I took the job. Not because Id suddenly become noble, but because genuine fear set in. I worked at the warehouse until late, got used to hard graft, slept in the car, saved every penny until I could afford a room in the hostel.
I changed. That careless, youthful naïveté vanished. In the mirror, a man stared backtired but calm, hands rough from work. I finally understood the worth of every pound sterling.
Half a year later, I returned to Mum. Not to ask for anything. I walked in, quietly placed money on the side table, fixed the kitchen tap and the bedroom doorrepairs Id ignored for years.
Mum stood nearby. She didnt scold. Just came over and laid her hand on my shoulder. For the first time in ages I felt not like her little boy, but a grown man.
She hadnt blocked me because she stopped loving me. She did it because it hurt her to witness my weakness. Sometimes, you have to carry your dog across the whole city on your back to realise no one else is going to live your life for you.
