October, a damp October afternoon. I was driving out to my country cottage for a sack of potatoes when I saw a little wet puppy curled up on the verge of the A1. He stared at the passing traffic as if waiting for someone. I slowed, thinking Id just have a quick look. The tiny thing lifted its head, and in an instant everything changedmy potatoes stayed buried in the soil for another week.
My neighbour, Mrs. Eleanor Clarke, coined the name later that evening when she spotted the reddishearred creature wobbling down my hallway.
Redmuzzled, clumsy, and a bit daft, she said with a chuckle. Marssounds right to me.
I laughed, and the name stuck.
Mars grew fast. By spring he claimed the entire left side of the sofa as his own territory, and that seemed perfectly reasonable to him. At first I scolded him, then I stopped. Sleeping alone in the flat felt far worse than sharing the night with a dog who snored softly and occasionally thumped a paw in his sleep.
Our friendship didnt blossom overnight; it developed slowly, like the kind that forms between people who have nowhere in particular to rush. A morning walk, a bowl of food at seven, the television. Sometimes Id talk aloud to Mars; hed sit beside me, ears perked, only yawning now and then, teeth on full display.
Youre right, Id say. Enough. And Id switch the TV off.
***
April brought the accident. We were returning from our evening stroll when the world tilted. I cant recall the exact sequenceperhaps the road was slick, my car skidded onto the pavement, and the leash snapped. I was thrown against the curb, lying there for a few seconds, hearing only my own breathing and a distant shout.
When I managed to sit up, Mars was gone. The leash lay on the road, its plastic clasp split in two.
I searched until midnight, combing three neighbourhood blocks, calling his name, asking passersby. Most shook their heads. One man mentioned seeing a reddish dog dash toward the railway crossing about forty minutes earlier, but he hadnt seen where it went.
Back home I stared at the empty bowl on the kitchen table for a long while. Then I printed twenty flyers, stuck them to every lamppost, called three veterinary practices and the shelter on Willow Street.
If a ginger mutt turns up, please call, I told the receptionist, my number is.
A week passed. Then a month. The flyers faded under May rain, so I replaced them. June came, and the clinics stayed silent. The Willow Street shelter called twice, each time by mistakedifferent dog.
July arrived, and Eleanor, from behind her door, suggested cautiously, Victor, maybe youd consider another dog? The shelter has plenty.
No, I replied. She said nothing else.
The flat felt different without Mars. Not emptyjust altered. The fridge hummed, neighbours upstairs shuffled past halfpast ten as usual, but something had shifted.
I picked up the old rubber ball Mars used to chase down the hallway, placed it on a shelf, then tucked it away, only to pull it out again later. Each morning my hand reached instinctively for the leash by the door, though there was nowhere to go.
I began walking the same route, at the same hour, alone. I couldnt explain why; I just kept moving.
In August my daughter, Emily, called from York. Dad, come stay with us. You need a break.
I cant, I said.
Why?
I hesitated, then whispered, Maybe hell come back.
Emilys silence lingered, then she said, Alright, in that tone people use when theyre saying one thing but holding another.
October finally brought a scratch at the front door just after eight. At first I thought it was the wind, a groan from the stairwell, but the sound persistedinsistent, patient, as if someone knew the door would eventually open.
I opened it.
Mars sat on the mat, older now. His coat was trimmed in a few spots where old wounds must have been, his left side a little scarred. Around his neck hung a foreign leather collar, brown with a brass buckle and a tiny metal tag that read simply, Buddy.
I stood there, stunned, and he stared backright ear floppy, a ragged amber star on his forehead, the same amber eyes framed with dark lashes.
Where have you been? I asked.
He stepped forward, navigating the flat as if hed never left, straight to his bowlempty, as always.
I closed the door, shuffled to the kitchen, my hands trembling as I opened the fridge.
Alright, I muttered. Alright.
The next morning I took him to the vet. They gave him vaccinations, checked his microchip, and examined the collar. The vet lifted the tag and read aloud, Buddy. She looked up.
Someone gave him another name?
Someone else owned him?
The vet shrugged, Hes lived somewhere for about six months. We dont know where.
She scanned the back of the tag and found a phone number. I called it from the car while Mars rested on the back seat, watching the passing trees.
After a few rings, a voice answered.
Hello, this is?
Yes, Im calling about a ginger dog you called Buddy.
A long pause. He left us in September. Weve been looking for him.
Hes with me now. His name is Mars. He disappeared in April.
Silence stretched. Finally, the woman spoke, He was with us. We fed him, treated his injuries.
Thank you, I said. Hes a good dog.
She asked, Are you far from Birch Street?
Not really, I replied. Just a different neighbourhood.
She sighed, He turned up at our fence in April, just lay there and never left.
I stared at the grey, leafless park across the windshield. The conversation ended on its own. I hung up, and Mars, now content, rested his head on his paws.
Back home I removed the unfamiliar collar, laid it on the table, and examined itbrown leather, wellmade, not cheap.
Six months somewhere, yet he had found his way back.
I thought of the woman from Birch Street, who must have fed and petted him daily, only to lose him again in September. I dialed her again.
Its me again, I said when she answered. If youd like to visit, Im happy to arrange it.
Silence.
Really? she asked.
Really.
She arrived that Saturday. Gwendolyn Harris, sixtyfour, in a grey coat, bearing a wicker basket with apple jam and a sack of dog foodthe very brand Mars had grown used to over those months.
Mars recognized her immediately, not by sprinting, but by nudging his nose into her hand and wagging his tail.
They sat down with tea. Gwendolyn recounted how shed found him by the fence in April, taken him to the vet, nursed his early fear, and eventually got used to his presence. I told her about the crash, the broken leash, the endless flyers.
Mars lay between them, dozing, occasionally lifting his head to watch each of us.
He chose us both, Gwendolyn said softly.
I looked at the dog, then at her. Seems thats the case.
I tucked the foreign collar into a drawer, not discarding it.
Mars reclaimed the left half of the sofa, chased the ball down the hallway at one in the morning, and the flyers on the lampposts faded under November rain, peeling away on their own.
Gwendolyn visited every Saturday, bringing jam, asking for advice about raspberriesshe tended a small garden on Birch Street, and I tried my hand at gardening too. We talked while Mars snoozed between us.
One evening I pulled the leather Buddy collar from the drawer, held it up under the lamp; the metal tag glinted.
Two leashes hung by the hall door: a frayed red one, and a fresh blue one that Gwendolyn had left the previous Saturday, silently, without asking.
The house feels whole again, though the shape of the emptiness has changed. The days still pass, the traffic still rolls past, but now theres a steady rhythm to the steps on the floor, the thump of a ball, and the soft rustle of a leash being taken down and hung back up again.
