John came back from the shoot as angry as a hornet in a jar. He kicked his boots off at the door – one left, one right. He slung his jacket at the hook, missed, and didn’t even bother to pick it up. He stomped into the kitchen and clattered the kettle.
Emily sat in the living room, scrolling through her phone. She could hear him pacing – heavy, irritable, each step like a silent accusation. The ginger dog, Buster, lay at her feet, nose on his paws. Ears flattened, tail still. He always sensed when the master was in that kind of mood and tried to stay out of sight.
“Right,” John said, planting himself in the doorway, hands on his hips – the way he always did when he was about to announce something he thought was final. “That dog’s no good for shooting. Useless, not a proper gundog. I’ve trained him and trained him – nothing. A duck falls, he just sits there. A rabbit runs past, he yawns. We need to get rid of him.”
Emily looked up. She studied her husband calmly, carefully, the way you look at someone who’s said something incredibly stupid but hasn’t realised it yet.
“Get rid of him?” she repeated, as if tasting the words.
“Well, what else? Feed a freeloader? A gun dog should work. But this one…” John waved a hand towards Buster, who pressed even closer to Emily’s leg. “Tomorrow I’ll take him down to old Bob. Maybe he’ll put him down. If not, I’ll dump him on the motorway.”
“Dump him on the motorway.” That was the moment something snapped inside Emily.
She stood up without a word. Buster immediately got to his feet beside her, looking up anxiously. Emily walked past her husband into the hallway, opened the cupboard and pulled out a suitcase – large, blue, with wheels. The same one they’d taken to Bournemouth years ago, when they still used to go places together.
John watched her with a puzzled look but said nothing. He probably thought she was just reorganising the seasonal clothes.
But Emily opened John’s side of the wardrobe.
Shirts – one, two, three, four. Folded neatly. Underwear, socks – in the side pocket. Jeans – one smart pair, one work pair. A grey jumper, a present from his mother. A razor from the bathroom. A toothbrush.
John appeared in the bedroom doorway and stared for a few seconds. Then it dawned on him.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing your suitcase,” Emily replied in the same tone she used for “dinner’s on the hob” or “we’re out of bread.”
“What suitcase? Why?”
“Well, you said we need to get rid of things. So I’m getting rid of you.”
John blinked. Then he sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, as if his legs had given way.
“Over a dog?”
“Not over the dog. Over you.”
She zipped the suitcase shut and straightened up. Buster padded quietly into the room and lay down by the door, as if keeping guard.
“Let me tell you something, John, since we’re talking. You call Buster a freeloader. He can’t hunt, no use. Fine. But let’s count who’s actually any use around here.”
“Em, don’t start.”
“Buster doesn’t bring back a duck, that’s true. But he greets me every morning like I’ve been gone six months. He puts his paw on my knee when I cry. And I do cry, John – a lot. Because you come home from work and stare at the telly. You come back from a shoot and flop on the sofa. The last time you actually talked to me properly was when the electricity bill came in high. Three sentences in a row was a big event.”
John opened his mouth.
“You’re comparing me to a dog?”
“No. I’m stating facts. Buster is alive. He feels. He loves – for nothing, no strings attached. He doesn’t care if I’m skinny or if I’ve made a decent stew. He just cares that I’m here. When was the last time you were glad that I exist?”
Silence hung in the room like wet laundry on a line – heavy, damp, awkward.
John stared at the suitcase. Then at his wife. Buster lifted his head and looked at him without resentment, without anger. Just looked. Dogs can’t hold a grudge; their hearts are too big for that.
“I didn’t mean it,” John said. “I got carried away. The lads were laughing.”
“The lads were laughing. So to save face in front of them, you decided to throw away a living creature – one that trusts you. That runs to you when you come home. And you’d have ditched it, but he doesn’t know that. He thinks you’re a good man.”
John rubbed his face with his hands. Stubble prickled – he hadn’t shaved in two days on the shoot.
“So, the suitcase – was that serious?”
Emily paused. Outside, sparrows squabbled in the rowan tree. The fridge hummed and fell silent.
“Yes, John, it was serious. It’s not about Buster. Buster was the last straw. You talk about a living thing like that – ‘get rid of it,’ ‘dump it on the motorway.’ What if tomorrow I don’t suit you? Will you get rid of me too? Drop me off at Mum’s – ‘here, she’s no use, take her back’?”
“That’s a stretch.”
“You stretched it. A long time ago. You stopped seeing that there are living people around you. I’m alive. Buster’s alive. We’re not tools. Not a shotgun you can sell if it jams. We’re a family. And you don’t throw family away.”
John sat there and felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. In the old days, he’d say something, and Emily 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 rubbish without consequence.
But sometimes it catches up.
Buster walked over to John and nudged his hand with a wet nose. Just came over because he saw the man was upset. And when someone’s upset, you stay close. Buster knew that not with his head but with his gut – with his whole ginger coat.
John looked at the dog. At the wet nose, the brown eyes, the tail that gave a tentative wag – as if to say, so, peace?
And then it hit him. Not to tears – he was still a bloke. But something turned inside him, like a boat on a wave – glug, and you’re on the other side.
“Em. Put the suitcase away.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he stroked Buster’s head, “I’m an idiot.”
“I know that. The question is – an idiot who learns, or one you can’t bang sense into?”
John snorted. Even now, she had a way.
“I learn. I’m sorry. About Buster. And about everything.”
Emily walked over to the suitcase, unzipped it. She took out the razor and toothbrush and put them back on the bedside table.
“You can hang the shirts yourself.”
John nodded. He leaned down to Buster and scratched behind his ear.
“Well then, freeloader,” his voice caught. “We carrying on?”
Buster wagged his tail so hard he nearly knocked over the floor lamp. He jumped up, licked John’s nose. Then he sat and looked at them both with that expression only dogs have: total, undeserved, absolute happiness.
On the next shoot, John went without Buster. He came back with two ducks and a bag of marrowbone treats from the local butcher.
“Who are those for?” Emily asked, though she already knew.
“Freeloader,” John muttered. And he smiled.
Emily put the suitcase back in the cupboard. But not too far back. Just within reach.
Just in case.
