The afternoon nap did nothing to soothe me; if anything, I woke plagued by a gnawing sense of unease and a dry mouth. There was a strange, almost physical sensation of emptiness in my legs, as if someone had quite literally pulled away the hot water bottle from under the duvet. Normally, Arthurmy golden retrieverwould have been there, curled up against my shins. His slow, heavy breathing always lulled me better than any sleeping draught.
Today, the bed was empty, and the sheet felt cold and clammy against my skin.
I sat up and swung my legs over the edge, immediately shivering from a draft sneaking its way through the entire flat. The house was sunk in a heavy, oppressive silence, so absolute that it made my ears ring. Not the familiar tap of claws on floorboards, not a sigh, not the quiet shake of furnothing.
Arthur? My own voice startled me, sounding cracked with worry.
No answer. And suddenly the place felt forever biggera cold, echoing void, with every scrap of warmth sucked out of it. I shuffled down the long corridor, steadying myself with a hand against the wallpaper, heart thudding a strange, disjointed rhythm somewhere high in my throat.
In the kitchen, Emma was sitting at the table, one leg crossed daintily over the other. My daughter-in-law, all of twenty-six, always reminded me of a cover girlflawless skin, artfully arranged hair, and eyes so cool and self-satisfied that sympathy never lingered there for even a second. She sipped some thick, green smoothie from an expensive-looking flute and scrolled through her phone, smiling as if shed just won the jackpot of her dreams.
Emma, wheres the dog? I leaned on the doorway, trying to hide the tremor in my knees.
She looked up, her gaze as languid and icy as ever. She left a neat green moustache on her upper lip after another tiny sip, which she leisurely licked away.
Oh, Mrs. Clarke, youre up? Well, Arthur… funny thing, really. He was whining and pacing like mad, literally throwing himself at the door, scratching away. I thought maybe his belly was off, you know? Flamboyantly, she threw up perfectly manicured handsher nails a blood red.
So I opened the door, just reaching for the lead, and he was off like a shot! Knocked me flying, really. I called after himArthur, wait!but he didnt even flick an ear. Gone. Probably just nature calling, spring in the air, tempting smells. He wont be coming back, Mrs. Clarke. Theres an old saying: if a dog leaves home on his own, hes gone to dieso his owners arent upset by it.
Something twisted inside mea rusty, jagged key scraping at my insides.
Spring? Emma, its November, I replied quietly, the tips of my fingers turning to ice. And hes been neutered for five years now. Hes terrified of the lift and never leaves my side on walks.
Emma merely shrugged with a detached indifference that made me feel ill. She was perfectly, crystalline in her lack of concern.
Maybe he just had enough of the concrete jungle. Craving the wild air, some freedom. Hes just an animal, after all.
My gaze landed on a set of car keys tossed carelessly on the table, dangling from a fluffy white bunny keyringa detail that suddenly seemed sinister. The keys belonged in the hallway, not here in the kitchen. She hadnt just let Arthur out.
Shed driven him away, used my sleep and my vulnerability to clear the decks before jetting off.
I left her without a word and walked to the hall, icy resolve beginning to simmer inside me. I knew there was little hope of finding him on foot if shed taken him far away, but I couldnt bear to sit there and watch her smug face another moment. This was her way of sweeping out obstacles before her departure.
The next four hours became a sticky, suffocating nightmare. I scoured every street, peered under every car, shouted myself hoarse until it felt like my throat had been sanded raw. My hands shook so badly I dropped the phone twice on the pavement while calling neighbours, desperate for any sign. I posted his photo to the local WhatsApp groupArthur, tongue out, ever-trusting. Lost dog, golden retriever, gentle, friendlyplease help.
No one had seen him. No one at all.
Back at home, I gulped my heart drops, but the sour taste only made the nausea worse. The flatmy son Olivers gift to us allfelt like a battlefield, and Id lost the war without ever raising a weapon. Emma flitted past as if I were a piece of outdated furniture that ought to be taken to the tip.
Her giant pink suitcase was open in the hallway, gaping like the maw of some greedy beast. Methodically, she stuffed it with bikinis, floaty cover-ups, expensive jars of face creams.
Honestly, Mum, dont make such a fuss, she tossed over her shoulder, passing by with an armful of silk dresses. Why do you need that old mutt? His hairs everywhere, he smells, theres always drool… Ugh. Why not get something smaller, like a fish? Quiet, no walks in the rain. Olivers paid for a fantastic hotelultra all-inclusive. I need some positivity, not your misery.
Does Oliver know? I could barely muster the strength to ask, staring at the floor.
That the dogs gone? No, not yet. Why bother him with trifles while hes away for work? Well tell him when he gets back. Or you can explainold age, bit of carelessness, door left ajar… it happens.
She hadnt just abandoned the dogshed already written the scene where it was all my fault. And Oliver, my gentle Oliver, would believe hershe knew how to cry prettily, without any puffy nose or blotches. I, meanwhile, would only choke on my words, afraid of looking like a mad old bat.
I slumped in the armchair, clutching a chewed-up rubber ballmy only lifeline to a world where Arthur was alive and well.
Outside, the autumn dusk was sinkingcold, violet shadows stretching through the flat, swallowing up what was familiar. The wind shivered a lilac branch against the window, producing a grating, ugly sound.
But then, the noise changed.
It wasnt the window. Not a branch.
It was a faint, tentative scratching at the front door. And a weak, barely-there whimper.
I leapt up so fast my vision blurred with the rush of blood. Dont remember reaching the door, dont remember fumbling the lock. I yanked open the heavy front door.
There, shivering on the filthy doormat, was a scraggy, trembling bundle.
He smelled of damp earth, petrol, road dust… and wild, desperate fear.
Arthur! I dropped to my knees on the tiles. He managed to raise his big head, his golden fur matted with brambles and twigs, trembling all over. Holding his front right paw awkwardly above the ground.
But gripped between his teethclamped so firmly his gums had gone whitewas something bright red. A stiff, little book.
Youre alive… you came back… I stroked his filthy head, not remotely bothered about the dirt or the cold. I felt only the thud of his heart, the life pulsating beneath my hands. Let me see, love. What have you got?
Arthur, groaning, reluctantly let his jaws fall open. The red book slapped wetly into my palm.
I wiped off the cover against my dressing gown. Gilt crest. In the porch light, the words gleamed: British Passport.
I prised it open with numb fingers. Emmas face stared back at me from the photoperfect, contemptuous, triumphant. And tucked inside ita boarding pass, business class, flight at six a.m. tomorrow.
Everything slotted together in a moment of horror.
Shed driven him out far, to the countryside, the woods. Tried to force him out, him resisting the whole way. Her handbag must have tumbled from the seat, fallen open, the passport slipping out. In her rush and fury, she missed it. Drove off.
And Arthurnot only did he chase after the car, but hed found her passport, the thing that smelled of her, of home, of us. Hed brought it all the way back.
He must have limped for miles on three legs, just to return something his betrayer left behind.
Whats all that racket? Emma barked from down the corridor. Mrs. Clarke, have you left a window open again? Its blowing a gale!
She appeared, fiddling with her silk maska vision completely out of place. Seeing Arthur sprawled on the mat, she froze. The mask suddenly looked like her true facea blank, cold rictus of nothingness.
Y-you? Her voice broke into a shrill squeal. But I took you past Reading! Into the woods! This isnt possible!
Upon hearing her, Arthur did something hed never done beforehe growled, deep and guttural, fur bristling, and pressed himself against me, seeking protection, or maybe to protect.
I got up, steadying against the wall, my bones aching but a profound calm rooting me in place. Fear gave way to a kind of disgust, as though Id stepped in something foul.
So he ran away, did he? I asked quietly, holding the passport by one corner as though handling a dead rodent. You said he left for nature. You took him past Reading, you say?
Her gaze flicked from the dog to my handand her blood drained away. She recognised her passport.
Give it here! she shrieked, lunging at me. Thats mine! Where did you get it?! Hand it over!
I stepped back, tucking my hand behind me. Arthur barkeda rough, warning snap. Emma shrank back, as if striking some invisible barrier.
My flights at six! Oliver spent a fortune! Give me that passport!
Go on, say it, I retorted. Witch? Senile old hag? How you describe me when you think I cant hear you?
I dont care! Give it back! Its theft!
The dogs hurt. My tone was patiently cruel, like youd use for an unpleasant child. Hes limping, look. Needs a vet, an X-ray, maybe an MRI. Treatments are expensive these days, Emma. Very.
Ill pay! She frantically patted the pockets of her robe, forgetting they were empty. How much? Two hundred? Five? Just take it, leave me the passport!
No, Emma. I shook my head slowly. Its not about the money. This is about principle. You left a living creatureone of usto die out there. You doomed him to freeze, alone, in the dark.
Hes just a dog! she shrieked, her mask blotched red and voice going ultrasonic. A hairy little beast! I need my holiday! I need a break, Im exhausted!
No, Emmayouve no nerves left to break. Only a calculator in the place of your soul.
I spread the passport open; the pages were damp, stuck with dog saliva and bits of dirt.
Oh, dear, I said, feigning disappointment. Look at that. Ruined, really. He carried it in his mouth all that way. Drool… teeth marks… mud… I doubt the border officials will be impressed with the new design.
Ill dry it! she wailed, stamping a slippered foot. With a hairdryer! Ill iron it, anything! Just give it back!
And even if it dries… I wandered to the wide-open kitchen window.
We live on the ground floor, overlooking a wild bramble thicket and untended raspberry canesthe sort of obstacle course our old gardener never bothered to clear. It was thick, black outside; the wind rattled the tangled branches.
You threw away my friend. So Ill get rid of your holiday.
No! Dont you dare! She bolted at me, scattering chairs.
I swung my arm backcalm, deliberate, wide.
Fetch, Emma!
The red booklet traced a graceful arc and vanished into the darkness. There was a faint thud, then the crunch of branches. The document had landed somewhere deep in the thicket, in the centre of the thorns.
Go on, find it, I said, voice as cold as granite. Maybe youll get lucky by dawn. If you try hard enough.
She howledlike a wounded gulland scrambled to the window, hanging half out, squinting into the cold, tangled night. But there was nothing to see; just brambles, wind, and cold.
She spun, eyes blazing with pure, undiluted fury, and stormed out. In nothing but her dressing gown and slippers. The front door banged shut with a satisfying crash.
I fastened the window. Chilly, but Arthur couldnt sleep in a draft; hed already caught enough cold.
He was lying on the lounge rug, panting, trying to lick his sore paw. I plonked myself down beside him with the first aid kit. My hands were steady at last. My head felt clearer than it had in six monthsas if Id finally shrugged off a sack of stones.
Well, lets have a look, hero, I murmured, switching on the lamp.
Gently, I checked his paw. No bones brokenthank heavens. Not much blood, but the leg was swollen. I parted the matted fur.
Aha. A big, dry burdock thorn, like a small hedgehog, driven deep between his pads. Every step must have been searing agony.
Hold on, love, itll be better soon, I told him, gripping the tweezers.
Arthur twitched, but didnt pull away or whimper. He trusted me completely. One clean motionand the bloody thorn came free. I washed it well with saline and wrapped it up. He sighed, relaxed, and settled his heavy head on my knees.
He was home.
From outside, even through the double-glazing, I could hear her panicked shrieks.
Where is it? Blast these thorns! OUCH! I hate this!
Emma was out there, crawling in the dark, scratching herself to bits on the brambles and raspberries, cursing me, the dog, England, the thorns, and her ruined plans. The sounds rang outher overture to a brand new, lonelier life.
The latch on the front door turned quietly.
I didnt jumpI knew it wasnt Emma, shed dashed out without her keys.
Oliver stood in the hallway, travel bag over his shoulder, tired and unshaven. Hed come home a day earlyhoping to surprise us.
He froze, seeing the muddy, bandaged dog, the scattered plasters, and me on the floor.
Mum? He frowned, taking it all in. Whats happened? Why is Emma crawling in the garden with a torch and swearing her head off? I called out, but she ignored me.
I found myself smilingthe kind of smile you manage after a shipwreck.
Shes just training for Survivor, love. A course in extreme living.
Oliver kicked off his shoes and came in. He crouched by Arthur, who managed a tired, thumpy wag of his tail. Oliver glanced at me, at the open first aid kit, the bloodied spike on a tissue.
She took him, didnt she? he whispered.
Not lost, not escapedhe understood at once. My clever boy. Hed seen her cold glances, petty cruelties, for a long timejust preferred, like so many men, not to make waves in hopes it would all pass. But today, reality had slammed him in the face.
She did, yes. Drove him out past Reading. While I slept. Claimed hed run off for romance. But Arthur came home.
Oliver went to the window and peered into the night, where Emmas torch beam danced and brambles snapped.
The passport? he asked, back still turned. Shes shrieking about a passport.
Arthur found itwhere she dumped him. Brought it back in his mouth. But it got a bit… damaged along the way. I think the wind took it out the window. Mustve been a draft.
Oliver was silent, jaw muscle twitching. Hed loved Emmaor thought he loved the perfect version she offered. But it was Arthur whod come home with Oliver ten years ago, still a puppy. Arthur was part of the family soul, trailing childhood, memories of his dad. That sort of betrayal leaves a scar love cant heal.
I see, he said, slowly removing his jacket and setting it neatly on the chair. His movements were tired, but resolute. So, Turkeys off the cards, then?
Looks like it. The passports ruinedcant travel now, can she?
Oliver sat on the floor beside Arthur, burying his face in the dogs dusty fur. Arthur licked his ear in thanks.
Well then, Olivers voice was thick, but steady, Ill go instead. With you, Mum. And well take Arthurfind a pet-friendly hotel. He needs some TLC after his adventure. And so do you.
From outside, a wild, triumphant, and then despairing wail echoed, rattling the glass.
Found it! Foundoh, what is this? What did you do to it?!
Emma must have found her passportand, judging by her tone, seen what I had: Arthurs fang had punched a neat, fatal hole right through the middle. The page with her visa was now a piece of lace.
Oliver stood, flicked the kettle.
Fancy a cuppa, Mum? With mint? Strong?
Yes, please, love.
The flat grew warm. Silence and chill gave way to the reassuring sound of the kettle and Arthur crunching his food. We were home. We were family.
Emma was where she belongedout in the cold, alone with her bitterness, torn robe, and a passport that would never open doors again.
A week later, we really did fly offjust us and Arthur. A little cottage by the sea, with owners who adored retrievers.
Arthur limped for a couple of days, but sea air and saltwater worked their magic. As for Emma… she moved back in with her mother. Rumour had it she spent weeks nursing her nerves and scratches, but scarswell, they dont just fade from the skin.
If theres one truth Ive learned from this ugly episode, its this: it isnt the words or grand gestures that make a family, but loyalty when it matters most. And some bondslike those between people and loyal, forgiving animalsare stronger than any paperwork, or any plans for escape.
