Hey mate, let me tell you the whole saga of Victor and his scrappy orange pup, Mars.
It all started back in October when Victor spotted the little guy on the side of the Aroad. The tiny, drenched puppy was perched on the verge, eyes glued to the passing cars like he was waiting for someone special. Victor was on his way out to the country cottage to pick up some potatoes, pulled over for a second thinking the mutt would just look around. The puppy lifted his head, and that was the end of the potato run the spuds stayed in the ground for another week.
Neighbour Margaret, who lived next door, came over and named the lad Mars when she saw the reddish, floppyeared creature with paws that didn’t quite match its size.
Redmuzzled, nosy, a bit clumsy, she said, Mars that fits him perfectly.
Victor laughed then.
Mars grew like a weed. By spring he was hogging the whole left side of the sofa and felt totally entitled to it. At first Victor scolded him, but he soon gave up. Sleeping alone in the flat felt worse than sharing the space with a snoring dog that occasionally thumped a paw in his sleep.
They didnt become best mates right away it was a slow build, like folks who have nowhere in a hurry to be. Morning walks, a bowl of food at seven, the telly on in the background. Sometimes Victor would chat to Mars out loud; the dog would sit there, solemn as a statue, only yawning now and then, teeth flashing.
Youre right, Victor would say, enough of that. And hed flick off the TV.
—
The accident came in April on the way back from an evening stroll. Victors memory is a bit hazy, but the gist is: the road was slick, his car slid onto the pavement, Mars was on a leash that snapped, and Victor was thrown onto the curb. He took a hard sidehit, lay there for a few seconds hearing just his own breathing and a distant shout.
When he got up, Mars was gone.
The leash lay on the tarmac, the plastic clasp split in two.
Victor searched until midnight, covering three blocks, calling Mars name, asking passersby. Everyone just shook their heads. One bloke said hed seen an orange dog dart toward the railway crossing about forty minutes earlier, but that was all.
Back home Victor dropped onto his kitchen chair and stared at the empty bowl for ages.
He got up, typed out an advert, printed twenty copies and stuck them all over the neighbourhood the next morning. He also rang three vets and the shelter on Factory Lane.
If you get a ginger, mixedbreed dog, please give me a ring, he told each person on the phone, my numbers
A week passed. Then a month. The flyers faded under May rain, so Victor replaced them, and again in June. The clinics stayed silent. The shelter called twice, both times by mistake it wasnt the right dog.
In July Margaret gently warned from the hallway, Victor, maybe you should consider adopting another. There are plenty at the shelter.
No, Victor said, and she didnt bring it up again.
The flat felt different without Mars. Not empty, just off. The fridge hummed, neighbours were still pounding on the floor above at half past nine, but something had shifted.
Victor lifted an old ball from the floor the one Mars used to chase down the hallway put it on a shelf, then slipped it into a drawer, then pulled it out again and left it there.
Every morning his hand reached for the leash by the door out of habit. The leash hung there, useless no need to go anywhere.
He started taking the same walks alone, same route, same time, just because. No real reason, just walking.
In August his daughter called from Sheffield. Dad, come stay with us for a while, youll get a break.
I cant, he said.
Why?
He paused. Maybe hell turn up.
She was quiet, then said Alright, in that tone when youre not really saying it.
Then, in October, Mars turned up.
Victor heard a scratching at the front door around eight in the evening. At first he thought it was a draft or some hallway noise, but the scratching came again, persistent, like someone knew the door would open if they just waited a bit.
He opened it.
Mars was sitting on the mat, older now. His coat was trimmed in a few spots where old wounds had healed, the left side a bit singed. Around his neck was a leather collar, brown, with a brass buckle and a tiny tag that read Buddy.
Victor just stood there, staring. Mars stared back, one ear floppy, a ragged orange spot on his forehead shaped like a crooked star, the same amber eyes with dark rims.
Where have you been? Victor asked.
Mars hopped over the threshold and trotted down the hallway like he knew every turn. He headed straight for his bowl empty, of course.
Victor shut the door, shuffled to the kitchen, his hands trembling a little as he opened the fridge.
Alright, alright, he muttered.
The next morning he took Mars to the local vet. They gave him the needed shots, checked his microchip, and Victor asked about the collar. The vet read the tag aloud: Buddy. Is that another name? she asked.
Someone mustve given him a new name, Victor shrugged. He lived with someone for about six months, I guess. No idea where.
The vet glanced between Victor and the dog and said, It happens. Dogs sometimes wander off and then come back, especially the clever ones.
Victor didnt reply, just watched Mars sit on the metal examination table, looking perfectly calm.
On the back of the tag there was a phone number. Victor dialed it from the car while Mars rested on the back seat, looking out the window.
After a few rings he heard, Hello?
Good afternoon, Victor said. You had a dog, a ginger. You called him Buddy?
There was a long silence. A mature female voice finally answered, Yes, he was with us. He left in September. Weve been looking for him.
Hes with me now. His names Mars. He went missing in April.
Silence again, then, He was staying with us. We fed him, treated his injuries.
Thank you, Victor said. Hes a good dog.
Is he far from Birchwood Avenue? the woman asked.
Not really, another part of town.
She sighed. He showed up at our gate in April, just lay there and never left.
Victor watched the leafless birch trees lining the drab yard outside his car window.
The call ended naturally. He put the phone away. Mars snored softly on the back seat, his head resting on his folded paws.
Back home Victor removed the strangers collar, set it on the table and stared at it. Brown leather, a solid piece of work, not cheap.
So that dog had spent half a year with someone else and still found his way back.
Victor thought about the woman from Birchwood Avenue, how she must have fed and petted him every day, how shed have woken up in September and found him gone. He imagined her frantic calls and flyers.
He dialed again.
Its me again, he said when she answered. If youd like to see him, Im happy to arrange that.
Silence.
Really? she asked.
Yes, really.
She turned up on a Saturday Galina, sixtyfour, in a grey coat, tote bag full of apple jam and a sack of dog food the pooch had grown used to over those months.
Mars saw her from the hallway, didnt bolt. He just padded over, nudged her hand with his nose, tail wagging like mad.
They shared tea. Galina told how shed found him by a fence in April, taken him to the vet, how hed been nervous at first but settled in. Victor recounted the crash, the snapped leash, the endless flyers.
Mars lay between them, half asleep, occasionally lifting his head to look at each of them.
He chose both of us, Galina said.
Victor looked at the dog, then at her. Seems thats how it is.
He slipped the foreign collar into a drawer didnt throw it away.
Mars went back to claiming the left half of the sofa and chasing that ball down the hallway at the odd hour. The flyers on the lampposts got soaked in November rain and fell off on their own.
Galina visited every Saturday, bringing jam, sometimes asking for advice on blackcurrants she grew them in her garden on Birchwood Avenue, and Victor, who dabbled in gardening himself, would chat away while Mars dozed between them.
One evening Victor pulled the leather Buddy collar out of the drawer, watched it glint under the lamp.
In the entryway now hung two leashes a red, wellworn one, and a fresh blue one that Galina had silently added one Saturday, no need to ask permission.
And thats where we are now Victor, Mars, and a new friend, all sharing a flat that feels whole again. Cheers.
