Barnaby
“Barnaby, come here, boy!” Vincent leapt from the car and sprinted towards the dog lying motionless by the roadside. But Barnaby didn’t stir, didn’t wag his tail… The crushing realisation seared through Vincent—his dog was gone. “What will I tell Mum?” His throat tightened as he knelt over Barnaby’s lifeless body, hot tears spilling onto the graying muzzle.
Mrs. Evelyn Hawthorne’s old collie had taken an instant dislike to her daughter-in-law, Gemma. From their very first meeting, he’d growled low in his throat whenever she passed, thumping his tail against the porch boards in warning. Gemma feared him, quietly seething with resentment.
“Useless brute,” she’d mutter under her breath. “If it were up to me, he’d have been put down years ago!”
“Gem, love, don’t say that,” Vincent would soothe. “Maybe it’s your perfume, or the click of your heels—he’s an old dog, set in his ways.”
Evelyn would only watch in silent disapproval. If that flighty girl knew what Barnaby truly was—the loyalty he’d shown, the life he’d saved—she’d understand. But some hearts were too small for gratitude.
***
Evelyn had always kept her opinions to herself, even when Vincent introduced Gemma. There was something brittle about the girl—a smile that never reached her eyes. Still, when Vincent pressed her—”Mum, isn’t she gorgeous?”—Evelyn had simply kissed his cheek.
“You choose who makes you happy, son. That’s all that matters.”
After the wedding, the couple settled in Gemma’s inherited London flat. Visits to the countryside grew rare. Gemma despised the mud, the quiet, the scent of earth. But this summer, she’d suddenly announced a craving for “wellness tourism.”
“I read that rural detoxing is revolutionary—stress relief, digital detox, all that. And it’s terribly chic! Though absurdly priced… So I thought, why not your mum’s place?”
Vincent, overjoyed at returning home, packed swiftly. Evelyn welcomed them with open arms.
“Finally! Proper fresh air, none of those garish resorts.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Gemma sniffed. “Evelyn, do you keep livestock? Authentic farm life’s essential for immersion.”
Baffled, Evelyn gestured towards the garden. “Just Barnaby and the hens. Had a goat once—poor dear passed last winter.”
Gemma’s nose wrinkled as she eyed the collie dozing in the sun. “I meant productive animals. Not some geriatric mutt.”
Before tensions could rise, Vincent interjected—tomorrow, they’d help with the garden, the repairs. But as Gemma climbed the porch steps, Barnaby lifted his head with a warning rumble. She shrieked, clinging to Vincent.
“Easy, old boy,” Vincent chuckled, ruffling the dog’s ears. “She didn’t mean it.”
Barnaby wagged his tail—for him, Vincent had always been home.
***
The next morning, Evelyn led Gemma to the vegetable patch. “Weeds here, carrots there—surely you know a dandelion?”
“How should I? I’m not a botanist!” Gemma snapped, sweat staining her designer athleisure. An hour in, her back screamed for mercy.
“This isn’t wellness—it’s penal labour!”
Undeterred, Evelyn mentioned the hens. Gemma recoiled. “Tomorrow!”
Staggering inside, she froze—Barnaby barred the doorway, teeth bared. She sidestepped him, trembling.
“That beast hates me!” she raged that evening. “What if he bites?”
“Barnaby’s never bitten a soul. You’ve wounded his pride,” Vincent said sternly.
“Should I grovel to a dog?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
Gemma scoffed. Madness, all of it.
Evelyn, ever the peacemaker, suggested bonding. “Pet him, love. He’ll see you’re family.”
“Family? It’s a dog!” Gemma sneered.
Evelyn’s heart sank. Barnaby had always sensed darkness.
***
One sleepless night, Gemma wandered into the moonlit yard. A rustle—then a snarl—sent her flailing into a nettle ditch. Vincent hauled her out, her skin aflame with stings.
“Barnaby nearly killed me!” she spat.
“Startled, is all,” Vincent defended. But Gemma’s mind was set.
The next day, she paid a local farmhand to “relocate” the dog. “Far enough that he won’t find his way back.”
The man pocketed the cash. Work was scarce; morals scarcer.
***
“Vincent, where’s Barnaby?” Evelyn’s voice trembled as she searched the empty porch.
They scoured the village in vain. By dusk, Evelyn crumpled onto the steps, weeping.
“Why carry on so?” Gemma sighed. “Dogs wander off to die. Get a puppy.”
Evelyn’s tearful gaze snapped up. “Barnaby wasn’t just a dog. Without him, I’d have lost Vincent years ago.” She turned to her son. “Roll up your sleeve—remember these scars?”
“Childhood burns, you said…”
“A fire. You were five. I was at work; your gran was watching. Barnaby dragged you out unconscious—the beam struck your head. Your gran… didn’t make it.”
Vincent paled. “I’d forgotten.”
Gemma rolled her eyes and retreated. Sentimental drivel.
Alone with her, Vincent’s voice turned icy. “Did you do something?”
Under his glare, she cracked, confessing the bribe.
Vincent’s fist slammed the table—the first time he’d ever raised his voice.
***
At dawn, Vincent followed the farmhand’s tractor down a dirt track, heart hammering. Then—there. A still, gray shape by the road.
“Barnaby!” He sprinted, dropped to his knees. No movement, no familiar thump of tail. Only the awful truth.
“Tough old boy, walked miles,” the farmhand offered lamely.
Vincent cradled Barnaby’s body, tears streaking the weathered fur. “How do I tell her?”
Evelyn’s wail pierced the air when he carried Barnaby home, wrapped in his jacket. She clutched the collie’s head, sobbing into his fur.
They buried him under the old apple tree by the porch. Vincent held his mother as her shoulders shook. Words failed him. Gemma, already packed, hovered impatiently.
“It’s a dog, not a funeral!”
Silently, Vincent loaded her bags and drove her to the station.
“You’re making me go alone?”
“I don’t know when I’m coming back,” he said flatly. “Or if I will.”
***
By summer’s end, Vincent filed for divorce. Gemma didn’t protest—she’d already moved on. Before returning to Evelyn, he made one last stop: a shelter on the outskirts of town.
“Are you certain? He’ll be quite large for a flat,” the attendant cautioned.
Vincent lifted the squirming pup. “He’ll have fields. A warm hearth. A porch in the sun.” He nuzzled the soft head. “What do you say, Barnaby?”
The puppy licked his cheek. The answer was yes.
