24October
I found the little thing on the road last October.
A tiny, shivering pup was curled up on the shoulder of the Aroad, rain soaking his russet coat. He stared at the passing lorries as if waiting for someone specific. I was on my way to the allotment for the harvest, slowed the van for a moment, thinking the animal would just look at me and move on. Then he lifted his head, and that was thatmy potatoes stayed in the soil for another week.
Ethel Harper, the elderly lady from next door, named him Mars when she caught a glimpse of the orange, earfloppy creature in the hallway.
Redmuzzled, nosy, a bit of a scamp, she said, tapping the collar shed found in the bin. Marsfits him perfectly.
I laughed, and the name stuck.
Mars grew fast. By spring he was claiming the entire left side of the sofa as his kingdom, and he seemed entirely convinced that was his right. At first I scolded him, then I stopped. Sleeping alone in the flat felt far worse than sharing the night with a softsnoring dog who occasionally nudged me with a paw in his sleep.
Our friendship didnt blossom overnight; it developed slowly, like two people who have nowhere in particular to rush. A morning walk, a bowl of food at seven oclock, the telly in the evenings. Sometimes Id talk out loud, and Mars would sit beside me, ears perked, his expression solemnonly to yawn and flash his teeth in the most endearing way.
Youre right, Id tell him. Thats enough. And Id switch the TV off.
The accident happened in April, on the way back from an evening stroll.
I cant recall the details clearly now. The road was slick; the car slid onto the pavement at a corner, the leash snapped, and I was flung against the curb. For a few seconds I lay there, hearing only my own breathing and a distant shout. When I pulled myself up, Mars was gone.
The broken leash lay on the tarmac, the plastic clasp split in two.
I searched until midnight, combing three blocks, calling his name, asking passersby. Most just shook their heads. One stranger mentioned a ginger dog dashing toward the railway crossing about forty minutes earlier, but he hadnt seen anything since.
Back home I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty food bowl. Eventually I drafted a notice, printed twenty copies, and plastered them across the neighbourhood the next morning. I also phoned three veterinary practices and the animal shelter on Mill Lane.
If a ginger mixedbreed turns up, please call. Heres my number.
A week passed. Then a month. The flyers faded under May rain, and I rehung them. Again in June, with the same silence from the vets. The shelter called twice, each time by mistakeit wasnt our dog.
In July, Ethel peered through the kitchen door.
Victor, maybe youd consider another dog? The shelters full.
No, I answered. She didnt bring it up again.
The flat felt different without Mars. Not empty, but altered. The fridge hummed, the neighbours above started their halfpastnine chatter as usual, yet something was missing. I lifted an old rubber ball from the floorone Mars used to chase down the hallwayput it on a shelf, then tucked it back into a drawer, only to pull it out again later.
Each morning my hand reached for the leash by the door out of habit, even though there was nowhere to go. I resumed my walks alone, taking the same route at the same hour, though I could no longer explain why. I just kept walking.
In August, my daughter Lucy called from York.
Dad, come stay with us for a while.
I cant, I said.
Why?
A pause. Maybe hell come back.
She held her silence, then said Alright in that tone you use when you want to say more but keep it to yourself.
Mars returned in October.
I heard a scratching at the front door just after eight that evening. At first I thought it was the wind or some creak from the stairwell, but the sound persisted, deliberate, as if someone knew the door would open eventually.
I opened it.
There sat Mars on the welcome mat, older now. Some of his fur was trimmed where old wounds had been, his left side a little singed, and around his neck hung a leather collar Id never seena brown strap with a brass buckle and a small tag that read Buddy.
I stood there, stunned, as he stared back with his drooping right ear, a crooked amber star on his forehead, the same amber eyes framed by dark lashes.
Where have you been? I whispered.
He stepped over the threshold, moving as if hed memorised every nook of the flat. He padded straight to his bowlempty, as always.
I shut the door, shuffled to the kitchen, my hands shaking as I opened the fridge.
Right then, I muttered to myself. Right then.
The next morning I took him to the local vet. They gave him the necessary shots, checked his microchip, and examined the unfamiliar collar. The vet read the tag aloud:
Buddy. Is that another name?
Someone gave him a different name, I replied. Hes lived somewhere else for half a year, I thinkdont know where.
She looked first at me, then at Mars, then back at me.
It happens, she said. Dogs wander off and sometimes they find their way back, especially the clever ones.
I said nothing, watching Mars sit on the metal exam table, unflinching. On the back of the tag was a phone number.
I called from the car, Mars resting on the back seat, his head pressed against the window. After three rings, someone answered.
Hello?
This is Victor. You had a ginger dog, Buddy, a few months ago?
There was a long silence.
Yes, a mature womans voice replied. He left us in September. Weve been looking.
Hes with me now. His names Mars. He got lost in April.
Another pause.
He was with usfed, treated. He had some wounds.
Thank you, I said. Hes a good dog.
She asked if I lived far, mentioning Birch Street. I told her I was in another district.
God, he just turned up at our fence in April, lay there and never left.
I watched the grey, leafless park outside the windscreen. The conversation faded on its own. I hung up; Mars snored softly, head tucked between his paws.
Back home I removed the strangers collar, placed it on the table, and stared at itbrown leather, brass badge, Buddy. A decent piece of work, not cheap.
Half a year somewhere else, and he still found his way back.
I thought of the woman from Birch Street, how shed fed and petted him daily, how shed probably searched for him in September, posting notices. I dialed her again.
Its me again, I said when she answered. If youd like to visit, Id be happy.
Silence.
Really? she asked.
Really.
She turned up on SaturdayGail Parker, sixtyfour, in a grey coat, carrying a basket of apple jam and a sack of dog food that Mars had grown accustomed to over those six months.
Mars saw her from the hallway, didnt bolt. He padded over, nudged his nose into her hand, tail wagging.
They shared tea. Gail recounted how shed found him by a fence in April, taken him to the vet, how frightened he was at first, then how he settled in. I told her about the crash, the broken leash, the flyers. Mars lay between us, dozing, occasionally lifting his head to glance at each of us.
He chose us both, Gail said softly.
I looked at the dog, then at her.
Seems thats the case.
I slipped the foreign collar into a drawer, not discarding it.
Mars reclaimed the left half of the sofa, resumed his midnight ballchasing in the hallway. The adverts on the lampposts weathered under November rain and fell off of their own accord.
Gail visited every Saturday, bringing jam, sometimes asking advice about blackcurrantsshe kept a small garden on Birch Street, and I tried my hand at gardening too. We talked while Mars slept between us.
One evening I pulled the leather Buddy collar from the drawer, examined it under the lamp; the tag glinted.
Two leashes hung in the entryway: an old red one, frayed, and a new blue one that Gail had quietly left there one Saturday, without asking.
The flat feels whole again, but in a way that reminds me how fragile that wholeness can be.
30October
Tonight, after the rain, I walked past the same stretch of road where I first saw Mars. The air smells of wet pavement and distant bonfires. I think about how a stray, a broken leash, a forgotten flyer, and a strangers kindness can intersect in a life. Im grateful for the second chance, for the quiet companionship that fills the evenings, and for the strangers who, without knowing me, helped bring a lost dog back home.
Victor.
