Jack was a gift from his wife, given three months before her death. They’d long wished for a German Shepherd. She even finished special training just to welcome this puppy into their lives.
She said with a gentle certainty,
Hell become a loyal friend to our little boy.
But then, one day, she simply sat upon a bus and never made it home a tragic accident took her life. Their little boy too. In the empty flat, only Jack awaited him: a five-month-old shepherd, playful and comical all that remained of their family’s happiness.
A month after the funeral, Jack fell ill with distemper; his back legs stopped working altogether. The vets advised putting the dog to sleep, but Simon Thompson could not bring himself to do it.
He chose to fight. Endless injections and drips, massages, special exercises. Simon even took time off work and brought the dog to the seaside. Jack slowly regained the ability to stand.
His back legs still dragged a bit, he wobbled as he walked. Yet Simon was grateful, even for this.
In our building, people called Simon Thompson a recluse.
See? All he does is dote on that dog of his, neighbours would whisper.
And it was true; he was devoted to Jack. Lonely but comfortable, Simon earned well as a senior engineer. Twice a week, the elderly lady from across the landing stopped by, keeping the place tidy, washing, cooking. When my family moved in, I befriended both Simon and Jack.
But mostly Jack, really. He was remarkably clever, followed dozens of commands, and understood well over two hundred words.
I believe that dog could see right into my soul. We shared an unspoken understanding. As I grew, Jack aged, and by thirteen, moved only with great effort.
Simon carried his large, heavy dog up and down the stairs to the fourth floor, always with care.
Then one splendid September afternoon, Simon knocked on our window. Jack had lain down mid-walk and could not get up again.
Mum fetched a large blanket, and together we laid the dog upon it and hurried to the neighbours battered Ford. In no time, we were at the vets.
What would you like me to do? This is just old age, the vet observed.
Please, help him, Simon pleaded.
The vet gave Jack injections, set up a drip. For two long months, he visited Jack three times a week. The dog seemed to improve, surviving the autumn and winter. Fresh spring grass began to sprout.
On our walks Jack sniffed the new shoots and looked at me with mournful eyes. That gaze was enough to move me to tears. Simon persisted as though his dog were immortal.
But one May evening, when the woods nearby were lush with green and the birds sang from every copse, he rang our bell.
Mum opened the door. Simon stood there in tears, his face stained and drawn. We followed him to his flat. Jack lay on the sofa, peaceful, as if asleep. My steadfast playmate.
Simon and I both cried. Mum rushed off to fetch the neighbour with the old Ford…
In the reaching woods, Simon dug a grave and laid Jack to rest. Mum planted a young oak upon the mound. Simon didn’t cry again.
But I did, sobbing, arms wrapped tight around a birch tree. The pain was overwhelming. That was the day I said farewell to childhood; it slipped away and vanished into the springtime forest. Jack had taken it off with him, to somewhere far beyond.
Afterwards Simon shut himself in, numbing his grief with whisky. He stopped going to work, left the door unanswered for anyone.
A sympathetic GP wrote him a medical note. We knocked and called, but he wouldn’t answer, not even to the postman.
Then, ten days after Jack was gone, my aunt rang.
Maggie, do you know anyone who could take in a German Shepherd puppy? My friends dogs had seven, and she just couldnt bear to have the seventh put down… He’s got no papers, but hes such a sturdy, clever little thing.
I know the perfect person, Mum replied softly.
We travelled out to have a look at the puppy
Upon entering the modest flat, I was taken aback. From the kitchens corner, a tiny Jack blinked at me with those wise, uncanny eyes just like in Simons old pictures.
We placed the puppy in a big basket and headed home. Up the four flights to Simons, where we knocked and knocked. No answer.
Mum simply kicked the door. It swung open. There, on the sofa, was Simon much thinner, unshaven and red-eyed, in an old, worn blue tracksuit, staring blankly at the ceiling. The flat was an utter tip, dust swirling thick in the air.
Up you get, Simon, Mum said firmly. Time to stop drowning in grief. Ive brought you a bit of happiness.
Simon didnt react, didnt even turn his head; just continued staring at the ceiling.
I lifted out the puppy and set him on Simons stomach. The little thing sneezed, then promptly made a huge puddle. Simon sat up.
Young Jack hopped off, trotted along the sofa, leapt to the floor, and upon seeing a crumpled newspaper, delightedly tore it to shreds.
Simon stared from the puppy to an old photograph of himself, silent.
We left them together. An hour later, I saw through our window: Simon, clean-shaven and tidy, running to the shop and back, smiling once more.
A year on, as we moved away, the neighbours, except the one with the old Ford, still dubbed Simon a recluse and said,
All he cares about is running around with his Jack.
They werent wrong. He did he truly did.
This is how our four-legged friends mend broken hearts. Oh, how it hurts to lose them
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