“I DONT WANT A PARALYSED,” muttered the daughter-in-law, slamming the door behind her. She had no idea how things would unfold after that.
In a sleepy little English hamlet somewhere in Kent, there lived an ordinary pensioner. He liked a tipple of gin on weekends and once dreamed of owning a dognot just any mutt, but the finest pedigree English mastiff. He was determined enough to travel right up to Scotland if need be, just to bring one home.
Everyone called the old man Denniswhether it was his first name or surname, no one quite knew. Dennis or Den, he never bothered to correct them. After a days work pottering about the garden, Dennis would perch on his bench, teacup in hand, reminiscing about the good ol’ days, often surrounded by the village youngsters, eager for tales of a time before everything was tarmac and Tesco.
Dennis had buried his wife, Dorothy, some time agoa heart condition, poor soul. The doctors had firmly forbidden her from having children, but Dorothy was determined. She gave Dennis a son and paid for it dearly, spending her final years severely ill. Dennis doted on Dorothy, handling all the housework himself and refusing to let her carry so much as a pint of milk. You mustnt! Doctors orders! he would insist. He took over caring for the boy and became quite the whiz in the kitchen. Dorothy would protest, Youre making me a laughingstock! All the village wivesll say Im useless. Everything you do, Dennis!
Yet, the other women werent laughing: Oh, Dot, let us borrow your Dennis for just a day! Wed love a taste of your life! Dorothy only smiled knowinglyuntil, one morning, she parted with a gentle smile still on her lips. Dennis wailed for three days straight, then poured himself into raising their son.
Just as the boy hit the awkward age of fourteen, adolescence at full throttle, Dennis life upended again. The lad finished up his time in the army, found a local girl, and wedded young, settling miles away in Yorkshire where hed served. And so, Dennis was alone, but content to natter with local teens on the bench, spinning yarns.
In time, his son had a little girlDennis granddaughter. He was forever inviting the family to visit, kettle always on, cake at the ready, but there was always an excuse: work, life, maybe next school break. He only glimpsed his granddaughter through the glossy photos in Christmas cards.
Then, the villagers noticed Dennis had turned gloomier than a November skyno jokes, no chatting on the bench, just a dark cloud over his head. They asked what was wrong and discovered he had received a telegram from his daughter-in-law: the family had a car crash, his granddaughter was in hospital in a dire state, andworsehis son had died.
What rotten luck, what a tragedy! everyone murmured, but what comfort is there for someone whos lost so much? Dennis accepted condolences but felt no relief. His son was gone, and nothing could change that, but it was his granddaughter, lying in a hospital coma at fifteen, that broke his heart further. Hed never even met her in person, but loved her nonethelessit was impossible not to; she looked a young Dorothy in her snapshots.
Dennis was about to head north to Yorkshire to see her when, the night before his journey, a car pulled up outside his cottage. Out tumbled his daughter-in-law, red-eyed and cold. Without a word, two orderlies carried in a stretcherhis granddaughter, limp as a rag doll, was placed on his sofa. His daughter-in-law dropped the bombshell: Shes paralysed head to toe. I dont want a daughter like that! Ive still got life left in me, I can remarry, have a healthy child yet!
Dennis protested, But Im not a nurse!
You wont need one. Doctors cant help her. If you dont fancy looking after her, just bury her alive for all I careI wont ruin my life with this misery. I am not her carer! She slammed the door and that was that.
Youre no mother, thats for certain! Dennis hollered after her, but only got the echo for company.
Suddenly it was clear why the son never visitedwhod want to travel with such a dragon? How had his gentle boy married such a battleaxe? But it was too late for those questions now. Dennis was left alone, just him and his stricken granddaughter in the little cottage.
She was, indeed, paralysed completely, but Dennis was no stranger to hardship. Besides, now he had purpose: get the girl back on her feet.
The doctors had discharged her, baffled shed survived the accident at all. Medical science had failed; all that remained were old wives remedies and obscure herbalists. Problem was, the only competent herbalist was in Cornwall. Dennis couldnt cart an immobile teen across half of England, and the herbalist certainly wasnt about to travel.
So, Dennis made the journey himself nearly every week, returning with odd-smelling brews and mysterious potions. Thats how he treated his granddaughterfor over a year, with no hint of movement, her body as still as a plank beneath the duvet; she could hardly utter a word.
Sometimes Dennis would notice a silent tear sliding down the girls cheek. It nearly ripped his heart out. He thought she must miss her parents. Hed sit beside her, reading stories or talking long into the evening, though she could not reply except to mumble incomprehensibly now and then. It was crushing for both of them.
Then, one evening, disaster struck. Dennis had left the door unlockedsloppy, but it was just that sort of weary dayand in burst a gang of rowdy teens, reeking of lager and mischief, fresh from the village disco. They knew Dennis lived with a paralysed girl. One lout suggested they pay a visitshe cant object, so why not a laugh? They pushed open the door with a shout.
Oi, gramps! Whip that blanket off and spread her legs! Well draw straws to see whos first crowed the drunkest, already fiddling with his zipper.
Please, shes only fifteen! Dennis pleaded in horror.
All right then, you open up wide and take her place, granddadwell give you a treat youve never had at the nursing home! the lad jeered.
Quick as a flash, Dennis dashed to the kitchen, cracked open the cellar trapdoor, and shouted, Fetch, boy!
Out shot a hulking English mastiff, all slobber and fury, right into the thugs. He chased them, tearing at trousers and almost biting off the leaders precious bits. The others had their jeans ripped to shreds as they scarpered, their bare backsides a local legend by breakfast. The dog even leapt through the window, giving chase as the panicked hoodlums disappeared beyond the hedgerows.
Dennis returned to the bedroom, only to find his granddaughter sitting bolt upright, shouting out the window: “Baxter! Baxter! Go on, Granddad, grab him before he runs off!”
That was the turning point. From that day, the girl began to recover. Before long, she was walking about, chatting up a storm to make up for her long spell of silence. Was it the herbal concoctions, the shock, or just the loving care and the dogs heroics? Whos to say? But Dennis knew happiness again. And where did the mastiff come from, you ask? As it turned out, Baxter was his sons old dog. The useless daughter-in-law, eager to be rid of both burdens, had carted the girl and Baxter down together and left the dog tied out by the gate when she deserted them.
Dennis couldnt bear to turn out his sons loyal doghe brought Baxter inside and the beast soon became the heart of their little household. Every day, Baxter served with steadfast devotion, but during that fateful night, hed been cooling off in the cellar because of the oppressive summer heat. Thats why Dennis had to fetch him in a hurry.
Later, the granddaughter confided that her silent tears had been for Baxter. Dennis, following habit, never allowed the dog inside, so the girl missed him dreadfully but couldnt explain. After Baxter chased off the hooligans, he raced to her bedside and covered her face in grateful dog kisses. He too had pined for her all that time.
So, the three of themDennis, his granddaughter, and Baxterbecame a proper family. As for the girls mother, they never heard from her again, and frankly, neither Dennis nor his granddaughter lost any sleep over it.
