“Oi, Victor, you want some tea?” called out his neighbour, Mrs. Patterson, from the kitchen. She popped in all the time—bringing pasties or a bowl of stew. She always said, “You’re all on your own, love. Got to eat.”
“Not now, Pat,” he waved her off without turning round.
A year. A whole bloody year.
And he still couldn’t forgive himself. Damn that day to hell.
He’d been in such a hurry. Had to drive into town to see the solicitor—sign some papers for his late wife. Nerves shot, head pounding, and there was Molly, his dog.
Just a plain old mongrel with clever eyes and a tail that never stopped wagging. After Sarah died, she was all he had left. The only living thing in the house that greeted him when he came home from work, that got excited every single time he walked through the door.
And that morning on their walk, she was under his feet constantly. Sniffing something at the kerb, then darting back. The lead went tight, then slack.
“Molly, for God’s sake, stand still!” he’d snapped. And he yanked the lead. Hard.
She yelped.
But he didn’t stop. Just kept walking, angry at the whole world. At himself.
They ended up by the motorway. Lorries roaring past, cars flying by. He pulled out his phone—wanted to call, check the time. And then…
A jerk. The clip came loose, and the empty lead was left in his hand.
Molly bolted across the road.
He screamed. Ran after her, waving his arms, trying to stop the traffic. But she vanished into the bushes at the roadside. Just disappeared.
He looked for her. Three days he walked up and down that motorway, calling, whistling.
Then he gave up.
Told himself she was dead. Hit by a car or frozen somewhere in the woods. His fault. He’d shouted, yanked her. That was his punishment.
Then yesterday, the phone rang.
“Hello, is that Victor Thompson? Did you used to own a dog?”
A woman’s voice. Young. Slightly nervous.
“I did.”
“We’re from the Hope Shelter. We’ve got a dog here that was brought in. Your number came up on the microchip. Could you possibly come and see her?”
His heart dropped.
“What kind of dog?”
“A ginger mongrel. Quite old now. Limping on her back leg.”
He was silent. Gripped the phone so hard his knuckles went white.
“Will you come?” the girl asked again.
“I’ll come.”
And now he was standing by the window, unable to make himself move.
Car keys on the table. Jacket hanging in the hall. Only an hour’s drive.
But he was scared.
Scared it wasn’t her.
And scared that it was.
The shelter greeted him with barking.
Dozens of voices—thin, hoarse, desperate—merged into one long howl. Victor shut the car door and stood still. His hands were shaking.
“Old fool,” he thought. “What are you shaking for, like a leaf in the wind?”
But his feet felt nailed to the tarmac.
“Victor Thompson?” A girl came out of the gate. Young, in a worn-out jacket, hair tucked under a knitted hat. “I’m Cathy. We spoke yesterday.”
He nodded. His throat was so tight he couldn’t speak.
“Come on. She’s in the far pen.”
They walked past the cages. Dogs threw themselves at the bars, whimpering, scratching at the wire. Victor stared at his feet. Snow crunched under his shoes.
“You know,” Cathy said, “she only came in two days ago. Relatives of an old lady. She passed away, and they couldn’t keep the dog.”
“Old lady?”
“Yeah. Mrs. Jenkins. Lived by the motorway, in a little house. Apparently she found the dog about a year ago. Treated her. She’d broken her leg—probably clipped by a car. The old lady nursed her back to health, but she never let her out of the yard. Afraid she’d run onto the road again.”
Victor stopped.
“Was there a tag on her collar?”
“There was. But the numbers were worn off. Mrs. Jenkins tried to call, but she couldn’t get through—dialled the wrong number, or… anyway, it wasn’t meant to be. Then she decided the owner must have abandoned her. Figured if they weren’t looking, they didn’t care.”
Victor clenched his fists in his pockets. She’d been alive all this time. Alive. And he hadn’t even tried to keep looking after those first three days.
“Here,” Cathy stopped at the far pen. “She’s in here.”
Victor looked up.
And there was his Molly.
She was sitting in the corner on an old blanket. Her ginger coat had faded, her muzzle gone grey. One back leg was tucked under her—still limping, it seemed.
The dog raised her head. Looked at him. And froze.
Victor took a step forward. Another. His fingers closed around the cold wire of the gate.
“Molly?” he rasped. His voice cracked.
The dog twitched. Ears stood up.
“It’s me. My girl, it’s me.”
She got up. Limping, she took a few steps towards the gate. Stopped a metre from him.
Just stood there and stared.
Victor dropped to his knees in the snow. Reached his hand through the bars.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m sorry, you silly ginger thing. I shouted that day. I yanked you. Then I gave up looking. Thought you were dead. I was scared, you know?”
Tears started rolling.
The dog stepped forward. Another step. Carefully, as if checking he wouldn’t disappear.
Victor held his breath. Even stopped breathing.
Then Molly came right up. Pushed her cold nose into his palm. Licked his fingers.
“Open it?” Cathy asked quietly, standing nearby, brushing away a tear without him noticing.
Victor nodded.
The lock clicked. The pen door swung open.
And Molly, limping, awkward, threw herself at him. Pressed against his leg and wagged her tail like crazy.
Victor wrapped his arms around her. Buried his face in her ginger fur.
“We’re going home,” he whispered. “You hear me? Home. And I’m never letting you go again. Never.”
Molly let out a soft whimper.
And wagged her tail even harder.
“She’s not eating well,” Cathy said quietly, squatting down beside him. “First few days she refused altogether. We thought, well, you know. Sometimes when a dog comes into a shelter, they just… fade. Especially the old ones. They bond with people more than we think.”
“I know,” Victor said hoarsely. “I’ve always known.”
He stroked Molly’s head. She opened her eyes—cloudy, tired—and looked at him. And in that look was everything.
“Cathy,” Victor looked up, “will she… I mean, has she got much time left?”
The girl sighed.
“The vet says her heart’s weak. The leg healed wrong, so she’ll always limp. Barely any teeth left. But you know what, Victor? I’ve worked here three years. And I’ve seen all sorts. Dogs don’t die from illnesses. They die from loneliness. But if they’ve got a reason to live…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
Victor understood.
He got to his feet carefully.
“Let’s go home, girl,” he whispered. “Mrs. Patterson’s made meatballs. You like meatballs, don’t you? And you’ll sleep on the sofa. My sofa. The one I always told you to stay off, remember? Not anymore. Sleep wherever you like. Just don’t leave me, okay?”
Molly licked his cheek.
And Victor felt—for the first time in a year—something inside him thaw.
“Thank you,” he said, turning to Cathy.
“Take care of her,” she nodded. “And take care of yourself.”
Victor lifted Molly onto the passenger seat, wrapped her in his old jacket. Got behind the wheel.
Started the car and drove home.
Mrs. Patterson gasped when she saw them at the door.
“Victor! It’s—it’s Molly!”
“The very same,” Victor said, carrying the dog carefully into the hall, setting her down. “She’s come back.”
“Oh, God,” the neighbour clasped her hands, crouched down. “My poor girl! Look how thin you are. Victor, bring her into the kitchen, I’ll get her something to eat right away!”
Molly hobbled slowly around the flat, sniffing every corner, every familiar thing. Then she came back to Victor and lay down at his feet.
“That’s right,” he nodded. “You’re staying with me.”
Mrs. Patterson fed her—small amounts, gently, so as not to hurt her. Molly ate greedily, gulping, as if afraid it would be taken away.
“Easy, easy,” Victor soothed, stroking her back. “It’s not going anywhere. Eat slowly.”
That evening, Molly climbed onto the sofa. Victor didn’t shoo her off—just as he’d promised. He covered her with a warm blanket and sat beside her.
Flicked on the telly but didn’t watch. Just stroked her ginger fur and said nothing.
And Molly rested her head on his knee and closed her eyes.
Her tail twitched—just a little, but it twitched.
Victor stared out the window. Snow was falling—just like a year ago. Just like that cursed day on the motorway.
But everything was different now.
For the first time in a year, he wasn’t afraid of tomorrow.
Because he knew: tomorrow Molly would wake up beside him. And the day after. And for as many days as they had left.
