George came back from the shoot in a right mood, like a wasp in a jar. He kicked his wellies off by the door – one left, one right. His jacket went flying at the hook, missed, and he didn’t even bother picking it up. He stormed into the kitchen, banging the kettle about.
Emma was sitting in the living room, scrolling through her phone. She could hear him moving about – heavy, tense, every step like an accusation. The ginger dog, Buster, was lying at her feet, chin on his paws. Ears flat, tail still. He always knew when the boss was in a strop and kept out of sight.
“Right then,” George said, standing in the doorway, hands on hips like he always did when he was about to announce something final. “That dog’s no good for shooting. Useless, he is. I’ve trained him and trained him – nothing. A duck falls, he just sits there. A rabbit runs past, he yawns. Time to get rid of him.”
Emma looked up. She gave him that calm, steady look you give someone who’s said something really stupid but hasn’t realised it yet.
“Get rid of him?” she repeated, as if tasting the words.
“Well, what else? Feed a scrounger? A gun dog should hunt. But this one…” George waved a hand towards Buster, who pressed closer to Emma’s leg. “Tomorrow I’ll take him to old Pete’s place – maybe he’ll put him down. If not, I’ll dump him on the motorway.”
“Dump him on the motorway” – that did something inside Emma.
She stood up without a word. Buster scrambled up too, watching her anxiously from below. She walked past George into the hall, opened the cupboard, and pulled out a suitcase – big, blue, on wheels. The one they’d used for that holiday in Brighton, back when they still went anywhere together.
George watched her but said nothing. Figured she was doing some seasonal tidy-up.
But Emma opened his side of the wardrobe.
Shirts – one, two, three, four. Neatly. Underpants, socks – in the side pocket. Jeans – one smart, one work. A grey jumper, a gift from his mum. His razor from the bathroom. Toothbrush.
George appeared in the bedroom doorway and stared for a few seconds. Then it clicked.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Packing your suitcase,” Emma said, in the same tone she’d use for “dinner’s on the hob” or “we’re out of bread.”
“What suitcase? Why?”
“Well, you said you needed to get rid of things. So I’m getting rid of you.”
George blinked. Then he sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, like his legs had given way.
“Over a dog?”
“Not over a dog. Over you.”
She zipped the case and straightened up. Buster padded in quietly and lay down by the door, as if on guard.
“Let me tell you something, George, since we’re having it out. You call Buster a scrounger. Can’t hunt, no point. Well, let’s count up who’s actually got any use around here.”
“Emma, don’t start.”
“Buster doesn’t fetch a duck, that’s true. But he greets me every morning like I’ve been away for six months. He puts a paw on my knee when I cry. And I cry a lot, George, because you come home from work and stare at the telly. Come back from shooting and crash on the sofa. Last time you properly talked to me was when the electricity bill arrived. Three sentences in a row – that was an event.”
George opened his mouth.
“You can’t compare me to a dog.”
“I’m not comparing. I’m stating. Buster’s alive. He feels. He loves. For nothing. He doesn’t need me to be skinny or cook a roast. He just needs me to be here. When’s the last time you were glad I existed?”
Silence hung in the room like wet washing on a line – heavy, damp, awkward.
George looked at the suitcase. Then at his wife. Buster lifted his head and looked at him without resentment or anger. Just looked. Dogs don’t hold grudges – their hearts are too big.
“I didn’t mean it,” George said. “Got carried away. The lads were taking the mickey.”
“The lads were taking the mickey. And you, so you didn’t look stupid in front of them, decided to throw away a living creature that trusts you. That runs to you when you come home. It doesn’t know you’d dump it – it thinks you’re a good bloke.”
George rubbed his face. Stubble prickled – he hadn’t shaved in two days on the shoot.
“So the suitcase – that’s serious?”
Emma paused. Outside, sparrows squabbled in the rowan tree. The fridge hummed and went quiet.
“Yes, George, it’s serious. It’s not about Buster. Buster’s the last straw. You talk about a living thing like that – ‘get rid of him’, ‘dump him on the motorway’. What if tomorrow I don’t suit you? You’ll get rid of me too? Drop me off at Mum’s? ‘Here, she’s no use.’”
“That’s a bit much.”
“You went too far. Ages ago. You stopped seeing that things are alive. I’m alive. Buster’s alive. We’re not tools. Not a gun you can sell if it misfires. We’re family. And you don’t throw family away.”
George sat there feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Before – he’d say something, and Emma would agree. Not because she had no backbone. She knew when to stay quiet – patiently, the way women do. She kept the peace. And he’d got used to saying any old rubbish and getting away with it.
But not this time.
Buster came over to George and nudged his hand with a wet nose. Just came over because he saw a man was upset. And when someone’s upset, you stay close. Buster knew that not with his head but with his whole ginger hide.
George looked at the dog. At the wet nose, brown eyes, the tail that gave a tentative wag – like, “Alright, mate, peace?”
And then it hit him. Not quite tears – he’s a bloke, after all. But something turned over inside him, like a boat on a wave – a flip, and he was on the other side.
“Emma. Put the suitcase away.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, stroking Buster’s head, “I’m an idiot.”
“I know that. Question is – an idiot who learns, or one you can’t teach?”
George managed a grin. Even now, she had a way.
“Learning. Sorry. For Buster. And for everything.”
Emma walked over to the suitcase, unzipped it. She took out the razor and toothbrush and put them on the bedside table.
“You can hang the shirts yourself.”
George nodded. He leaned down to Buster and scratched behind his ear.
“Well then, scrounger,” his voice cracked a bit. “We carrying on?”
Buster wagged his tail so hard he nearly knocked over the lamp. He jumped up, licked George’s nose, then sat and looked at them both with that expression only dogs have: absolute, undeserved happiness.
Next shoot, George went without Buster. He came back with two ducks and a bag of marrowbone treats from the market.
“Who’s that for?” Emma asked, though she knew.
“Scrounger,” George grunted. And smiled.
Emma put the suitcase back in the cupboard. But not too far back. Easy to reach.
Just in case.
