The boy turned the key and slipped into the flat. He didnt call out the usual, Mum, Im home!. Eleanor found it odd that he lingered in his coat, his boots silent on the floor, the winter jacket unmoved, his hands idle.
Tim, is that you? Ive bought the herring, the potatoes are on the hob, well be eating soon.
Silence.
Tim?
Eleanor, wiping her damp hands on a kitchen towel, stepped into the hallway. At a glance she knew something was wrong. Her son stood slumped, utterly unlike himself. He lifted his eyes to her, and the pain in his gaze struck her heart. She seized his collar and stared intently.
Youve been in a fight? Did they beat you up?
Mmum Mum There
He winced, fighting back tears.
Speak, dont be afraid!
Mum, theres a dog in the binroom. Its hurt. The binroom isnt a normal one its a hole under the house. I tried to help, but it growled. It cant get up, Mum, and its freezing outside. The rubbishs piled on it.
Eleanor breathed a little easier, grateful the boy was alright.
Where is it? Near our house?
No, on the next street, on the way to school. Shall we go? It needs help!
Did you ask any grownups?
I did. No one wanted to. Everyone just brushed me off, the boy lowered his head.
Listen, Tim. Its late and dark. Take off your coat. Perhaps the dog is simply tired and has lain down to rest?
It cant stand up.
You must have imagined it in the gloom. Lets wait until morning. If its still there, well think of something call the fire brigade or the police. All right? Your hands are freezing, get undressed quickly!
Tim reluctantly unbuttoned his coat.
Mum, what if it freezes to death before morning?
Its a dog, Tim, and Im sure its a stray, used to the streets. It has a thick coat. Nothing will happen to it.
Tormented by doubt, Tim stripped off and shuffled to the bathroom, running his chilled hands under the hot tap. He could not stop thinking of the animals frightened, desperate eyes looking up from the dark pit beneath the house, the little opening where the residents dumped their rubbish. He remembered the dog as a common mutt, its cheeks stained with reddish patches. How long had it lain there? Why couldnt it rise? The memory made his stomach knot.
That evening, after slinging their backpacks over their shoulders, Tim and his friend set off for a stroll. It was unusually warm for York, yet a biting chill lingered and the snow refused to melt. They lingered, sledding down a hill on makeshift sleds and racing on foot, pretending to be snowboarders. Something prompted them to stray from the pavement and follow a narrow, trodden path beside the houses. It was there, in the mouth of the rubbish chute, that Tim saw a pair of glinting eyes. At first he thought it was a cat. He and his friend drew nearer and leaned over a dog.
Hold my legs, Ill try to pull it out!
Tim flattened himself at the opening and reached down, but the dog snarled at him.
Forget it, lets go home. Its sleeping, his friend muttered.
Come here, pup! Come, come, little one! Tim called, but the animal stayed still. Come to me, my dear, Ill help you! he coaxed, while the dog whimpered.
Tim switched on the torch on his phone and shone it into the darkness. The dog was covered in small bite marks, and a large wound gaped on its hind leg. He could not leave such a helpless creature behind.
For the next half hour the elevenyearold pleaded with passing men, his voice trembling, begging them to free the dog. Yet every passerby youths, grown men, pensioners waved him away. Even his friend abandoned him, hungry and late for dinner. The strangers said, Why bother? Let it get out on its own when it wishes.
The next morning Tim leapt out of bed far earlier than usual and found his mother, Eleanor, at the front door, already dressed for work. She taught at a nursery and was due at seven.
Quick, check the place. Im sure its gone by now. Youre all dusty, didnt sleep, worried yourself, didnt you?
Tim sighed, gathered his resolve, and slipped out. In the stairwell he glanced at the corner beneath the steps a year earlier hed rescued four kittens from a box there, treated them for fleas, fed them and found them new homes. Their household already had two cats and a dog, and they had adopted another stray the previous summer. He recalled the time he buried a dead pigeon beneath an oak in the park, the way he never hesitated to help an elderly lady with her groceries, or to aid a trembling old man cross a busy road. He even approached men slumped on park benches, asking if they were ill or merely intoxicated, because he never trusted a passerby to notice when someone truly needed help.
That dawn Tim raced to the rubbish chute, hoping the dog had managed to escape the cold. It was still there, shivering. His heart ached. He called his mother, his voice breaking, Mum, the dogs still in the pit.
Ill send you a video, look. We have to think of something, we cant just leave it.
Eleanors first thought was to ring the fire brigade. She promised Tim she would call straight away and arrange everything, while he should head to school.
The fire brigade replied that they did not handle such cases and suggested contacting the councils wastemanagement team. That call yielded no help either. Tim kept phoning each break, Any news?
Hello, Nat, Im at my wits end, Eleanor said around lunchtime, dialing a friend. Tim found a dog
Her friend recommended calling an animal shelter, noting they often rescued dogs and cats in trouble. She found the contact for Elms Animal Rescue online, and volunteers from there drove to the address at once. Tim had slipped out of his last lesson to stay by the pit, hoping a passerby might show compassion.
He’s there! He’s there! Tim cheered as the volunteers arrived.
One of them lowered a blanket into the chute, the others steadying her feet. The dog whined, no longer able to bark. Lifting it proved difficult the animal was frozen to the iron grate, having urinated on the cold metal.
Poor thing, look at you, such a thin thing! a volunteer patted its head. Just bones.
They wrapped the dog in the blanket and set it on the ground to warm. Tim paced anxiously. He wondered what would become of the animal now that it could not walk.
Its a mutt, rescued by a brave lad, the volunteer said. Whats next for her? Shes badly wounded, maybe attacked by other dogs.
They would take her to a veterinary clinic for treatment.
The dogs leg injury was serious, and she was chilled to the bone. After a while, once she was stable, the shelter arranged a temporary foster home. Eleanor hesitated, fearing she could not manage another pet, but Tim and his mother eventually took the dog in.
Newspapers ran stories about Tims deed, interviewing the boy, though he refused to call himself a hero.
Its just what any decent person would do, Tim told the reporter. Theres nothing heroic about it. People have become so indifferent that even a small act of kindness seems extraordinary now. It makes me sad we did a simple thing, yet it felt noble. Can you imagine how cruel our world has become?
What would you change, if you could? the journalist asked.
Id like people to be kinder.
Do you have plans for the future?
I want to work with dogs, become a dogtrainer, volunteer where I can. Im still small, so Im not taken seriously yet, but I want to help animals and the elderly. I feel for lonely old folks and wish I could be a friend to them.
Hows the dog now? You named her Jack, right?
We kept her, now shes our Jack. Come here, boy! Lets show Uncle what tricks weve learned.
Jack bounded to Tims call, tail wagging. Sit, Jack! Down! Crawl, my good boy Well done!
Tim remained a boy with a wounded heart, for only a heart that has known pain never rests. As long as suffering exists, as long as cruelty and indifference linger, as long as creatures find themselves in peril, there will be those like Tim who extend a hand. Until that day when many hearts bear such wounds, we shall keep the hope alive that kindness will reign. And for now, I send my warmest embrace to you all.
Tim Corbett, York, and his dog Jack.
