George was certain: the renovation mattered more; his son would get over it. The dog was taken to the shelter, despite the boy’s pleas. But eleven days later, Mary walked into her son’s room and found a drawing that turned everything upside down.
The bag stood by the front door. Two bags, to be precise: in one, the bowls; in the other, the leftover food and a rubber ball that Buddy had dragged around the flat ever since he’d learned to walk.
Alex saw them before he’d even taken off his trainers.
Buddy nuzzled the boy’s knee and wagged his tail so hard he knocked the bag. The bowl inside clinked. His ginger coat smelled of the yard, autumn leaves, and something warm, purely dog, something that always made Alex’s chest tighten. He crouched down, wrapped both arms around the dog. Buddy froze, pressed his side against the checked shirt, and rested his muzzle on the boy’s shoulder.
His back left leg gave way awkwardly. The dog had limped on it since puppyhood, and Alex had grown used to steadying him by the flank when he sat down.
The kettle hummed in the kitchen. Mary stood by the hob, twisting her wedding ring on her finger. Quickly, out of habit, the way she always did when she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Her husband sat at the table, back straight, hands folded in front of him. A coffee cup sat dead centre on the saucer.
„Mum. What’s that for?”
Mary didn’t turn. Her fingers on the ring sped up.
„Dad, why are those bags by the door?”
George finished his coffee in one gulp. He set the cup on the saucer so precisely that it didn’t clink.
„Alex, we’ve decided. The dog’s going today.”
„Where?”
„To a shelter. Good conditions, I checked. Heated kennels, proper food.”
The boy looked at his mother. She stared out the window, where the grey October sky pressed down on the rooftops. The ring kept turning.
„Mum?”
The kettle clicked off. The silence made the sound of Buddy breathing in the hallway audible.
„Mum, say something to him.”
Mary straightened the tea towel on the hook. Took it off, hung it again, even though it had been straight.
„Dad’s right, love. We need to do the renovation. The dog would find it hard here…”
„Buddy! His name is Buddy!”
„Buddy would find it hard. Paint, dust, tools on the floor. It could make him unwell.”
She spoke in a level voice, each word as if it hadn’t been said for the first time. As if she and George had rehearsed the night before, while Alex slept.
The boy gripped the edge of the chair. His knuckles went white.
„I’ll walk him three times a day. I’ll stay with him in my room. He won’t be in the way. Please.”
George stood up. The chair scraped the linoleum.
„I’ve said it, so it’s final. We leave in half an hour.”
„Please. Please don’t.”
His voice became thin. Not even childish, but transparent, as if the words passed through him without stopping. Buddy scraped his claws on the tiles, limped into the kitchen, and sat down, leaning his side against Alex’s leg. He laid his muzzle on the boy’s knee.
And stayed still. The dog’s eyes were brown with ginger flecks, looking up calmly. He didn’t understand. He trusted everyone in this house.
Mary squeezed her eyes shut. For a second, maybe two. Then she opened them and reached into her pocket for the car keys.
Alex pulled on his jacket.
„Alex, you’d better stay home. You don’t need to go there.”
„No, I’m coming!” Alex was almost crying.
In the car it smelled of petrol and warm plastic. The sun never came out, and the town outside the window looked drawn in grey pencil on wet paper. Buddy lay on the back seat, his muzzle on Alex’s lap. The boy didn’t cry. He sat upright, stroking the ginger head, and his fingers moved slowly, evenly, as if memorising every bump, every curl of fur.
George glanced once in the rearview mirror. Quickly looked away.
Mary drove and thought about the wallpaper in the hallway. About rollers, about the colour „ivory” they’d chosen on Saturday at the hardware store. In a month the flat would be bright. Clean. No fur on the sofa, no click of claws in the mornings.
The shelter was on the outskirts, behind the garages. A grey building with an iron door, behind which the smells were bleach, wet concrete, and something sour, thick, that made you want to breathe through your mouth. From deeper inside came barking. Not loud, not angry. Desolate, as if someone were calling and no longer believed they’d be heard.
A woman in a green apron came out to meet them. She smiled at Buddy, ruffled his ear.
„Good boy, ginger. We’ll sort him out, don’t worry.”
Alex held the lead. With both hands, tight, so the leather strap bit into his palms. His fingers reddened from the tension.
„Alex, hand it over.”
His father extended his hand. A large palm, smelling of engine oil, opened in front of the boy’s face.
Alex looked at the lead. Then at Buddy. Then back at the lead.
And he unclenched his fingers. Slowly.
The woman took the lead and led Buddy down the corridor. The dog limped on his back left leg, and his claws clicked on the tiles, and the sound echoed because the corridor was long and empty. At the turn, Buddy looked back.
The woman rounded the corner. The clicking grew softer, softer. And vanished.
In the car on the way back, the boy sat behind the driver’s seat. Where ten minutes earlier Buddy had lain. The upholstery still held the smell: warm fur, yard, autumn leaves. Alex pressed his cheek to the seat and closed his eyes.
Mary reached for the radio. George shook his head. They drove home in twenty minutes. Not a single word.
At home, Alex took off his shoes, walked past the kitchen, and shut himself in his room. The door clicked softly. Just closed.
Mary cleared the empty bags, folded them neatly, stuffed them into the bin. Then she saw the bowl.
A red plastic bowl with teeth marks around the rim. Buddy had gnawed it as a puppy, when he didn’t yet know bowls weren’t for that. Mary picked it up, held it in her hands. The plastic was light and smooth, and the teeth marks rough under her fingers. She set the bowl back on the floor.
The next day, they noticed the oddness.
Alex didn’t ask what was for dinner. Didn’t turn on the telly. Didn’t take his school diary out of his backpack. He came home from school, took off his shoes, went to his room. Quiet, like a shadow on the wall.
Mary knocked.
„Alex, do you want mac and cheese? With cheese, like you like it.”
From behind the door came the creak of a bed. Nothing more.
She stood by the door for half a minute. Listened to the silence. Walked away.
That evening George said: he’ll get used to it. Kids forget quickly. In a week he’ll be running around like before. He said it confidently, standing in the hallway where a scratch from Buddy’s claws still marked the wall from his first month.
On the fifth day, the teacher rang. Her voice was careful, like someone stepping on thin ice.
„Is everything all right at home?”
„Yes, of course. Why?”
„Alex doesn’t answer in class. At all. He sits and stares out the window. At break he stands alone by the wall. Kids approach him; he doesn’t speak.”
Mary bit her lip.
„We, um, we rehomed the dog. To a shelter. He’ll get used to it.”
The teacher paused. A few seconds, and in that pause Mary heard more than words could say. Then the voice in the receiver said:
„I see.”
That „I see” hung in the flat all evening. Like the smell of paint they hadn’t opened yet, but it was already there.
On the seventh day, Alex stopped coming out for dinner. Mary put a plate out. Picked it up untouched. The macaroni cooled and formed a skin, and that somehow was unbearable.
George bought rollers and primer. He tore off the old wallpaper in the hallway. Beneath it the walls were grey, with patches of old glue and a crack from floor to ceiling that had once been hidden by a picture of a sailing ship. It smelled damp. It didn’t look nice. And the silence wasn’t the silence he’d planned.
The red bowl still sat in the kitchen. Mary couldn’t bring herself to move it. Three times she picked it up, three times put it back. The fourth time she turned it upside down. Then set it right again.
At some point, Mary went into her son’s room while he was at school. She wanted to tidy up.
On the desk lay a drawing.
A house with a triangular roof and a chimney with smoke. Ordinary, like all kids draw. Next to it, a stick-figure boy with a round head and arms out. And next to the boy, a ginger smudge with four legs and a curly tail. The boy and the dog were drawn brightly, in red felt-tip and orange crayon, pressed so hard the paper was dented.
But the house was empty. Windows without curtains, door wide open. Inside, no figures, no furniture. White.
No mum. No dad. Only white space beyond the open door.
Mary sat on her son’s bed. She picked up the drawing, brought it closer. At the bottom, under the house, in crooked little letters: „Buddy Im coming.”
No comma. No full stop. A promise written by a hand that hadn’t yet learned to form letters evenly.
The ring on her finger pressed so hard that Mary took it off. Laid it on the desk next to the drawing. And she sat, staring at the wall, because she wasn’t thinking about wallpaper. Not about the colour „ivory.” Not about fur or claws.
She was thinking that her son had drawn a house in which she did not exist.
That evening Mary placed the drawing in front of George. She didn’t explain. Just laid it on the table beside his plate.
He looked at it for a long time. Then he pushed his plate aside.
„We’ll get him back.”
Mary blinked.
„Buddy. Tomorrow morning.”
And he said it, not her. She’d expected to have to argue, convince, point at the drawing. But George was staring at the empty house without people, and something moved on his face, as if his muscles didn’t know what expression to take.
„Tomorrow. First thing.”
Mary nodded. She wanted to say „thank you,” but the word stuck. There was nothing to thank for. This wasn’t a gift. It was an attempt to fix what they themselves had broken.
In the morning they arrived at the shelter. Same iron door. Same smell of bleach and wet concrete. The woman came out to meet them, this time in a blue apron, but the same face.
Buddy recognised them from the doorway. He lunged at the kennel gate, whimpered, wagged his tail so hard his whole body shook. He’d lost weight in those days: ribs showed through the ginger coat, and his back left leg buckled more than before. He limped towards them faster than he could.
George took the lead. The same leather one, worn. His palm closed around the strap naturally.
At home, Alex sat in his room. Door closed.
Claws clicked on the hallway tiles. Not loud. Uneven, with a skip every fourth step.
The bedroom door opened.
The boy stood in the doorway. Buddy rushed to him, buried his muzzle in Alex’s stomach, licked his hand, his knee, his hand again. His tail thumped against the wall.
Alex sank to the floor. His fingers dug into the ginger fur, which smelled of shelter, bleach, something foreign. But beneath that was another smell, the old, real one, the one that had always made his chest tighten.
He spoke his first word in days:
„Buddy.”
Then he lifted his head. Looked at his mother. At his father.
Mary crouched beside him.
„Love…”
He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t lean in either. He just sat on the floor, hugging the dog, and looked at them as if seeing them for the first time. And wasn’t sure he recognised them.
Buddy licked the boy’s chin and settled down. Lay next to him, pressing his warm side close.
Mary poured kibble into the red plastic bowl with teeth marks around the rim. Buddy limped to the kitchen, claws clicking, and began eating hungrily, hurriedly. Alex sat beside him.
And George stood in the hallway, where the stripped walls smelled of damp and old glue. The roller lay in the corner, covered in dust. The primer had dried in the tin. The crack from floor to ceiling hadn’t gone anywhere.
From the kitchen came the scrape of the bowl on the floor and the sound of eating.
George stood and looked at the walls. The renovation hadn’t moved forward. And now it didn’t matter whether it would. Because in this house, something else needed fixing.
