**Diary entry – 14th October**
George was adamant: the renovation mattered more. Our son would get over it. We took Buddy to the shelter despite Liam’s pleading. Eleven days later I walked into my son’s room and found a drawing that turned everything upside down.
The bags stood by the front door. Two of them, actually – one with bowls, the other with leftover kibble and a rubber ball that Buddy had carried around the flat ever since he’d learned to walk.
Liam saw them before he’d even taken off his trainers.
Buddy nuzzled into the boy’s knee and wagged his tail so hard he knocked the bag. The bowl clinked inside. His ginger fur smelled of the yard, autumn leaves, and something warm, purely dog-like, that always made something tighten in Liam’s chest. 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. He’d limped on it since puppyhood, and Liam always steadied him by the hip when he sat.
The kettle hummed in the kitchen. Mary stood by the stove, twisting her wedding ring on her finger. Quick, habitual – the way she did whenever she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. George sat at the table, back straight, hands folded. His coffee cup sat dead centre on the saucer.
“Mum. Why?”
Mary didn’t turn. Her fingers on the ring sped up.
“Dad, why are the bags by the door?”
George finished his coffee in one gulp. Set the cup on the saucer so precisely it didn’t clink.
“Liam, we’ve decided. The dog goes today.”
“Where?”
“A shelter. Good conditions – I checked. Heated kennels, decent 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 spinning.
“Mum?”
The kettle clicked off. Silence fell – I could hear Buddy breathing in the hallway.
“Mum, say something to him.”
Mary adjusted the tea towel on the hook. Took it down, hung it again, though it hung straight.
“Your dad’s right, love. We need to do the renovation. The dog will find it hard here.”
“Buddy! His name is Buddy!”
“Buddy will find it hard. Paint, dust, tools on the floor. It could make him ill.”
She spoke in a flat voice, each word sounding rehearsed – as if she and George had practised the night before while Liam 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 a problem. Please.”
George stood. The chair scraped the linoleum with a short squeak.
“I’ve said it, so that’s that. We leave in half an hour.”
“Please. Please don’t.”
Liam’s voice turned thin – not 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 beside Liam, leaning his side against the boy’s leg. He rested his muzzle on Liam’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 – a second, maybe two. Then opened them and reached into her pocket for the car keys.
Liam pulled on his jacket.
“Liam, you’d better stay home. You don’t need to come.”
“No, I’m coming!” His voice cracked.
The car smelled of petrol and warm plastic. The sun never came out, and the town outside looked drawn in grey pencil on wet paper. Buddy lay on the back seat, his muzzle on Liam’s lap. The boy didn’t cry. He sat upright, stroking the ginger head, his fingers moving slowly, steadily, as if memorising every bump, every curl of fur.
George glanced in the rear-view mirror once. Quickly looked away.
Mary drove and thought about the wallpaper in the hallway. The rollers. The colour “ivory” they’d chosen on Saturday at the DIY store. In a month the flat would be bright. Clean. No fur on the sofa, no clicking of claws in the morning.
The shelter was on the outskirts, past the garages. A grey building with a metal door; behind it the smell of bleach, wet concrete, and something sour and thick that made you want to breathe through your mouth. From deep inside came barking – not loud, not angry. Lonely, as if someone was calling out and no longer believed they’d be heard.
A woman in a green apron came out to greet us. She smiled at Buddy, scratched his ear.
“Lovely boy, ginger. We’ll sort him out, don’t worry.”
Liam held the lead – two hands, tight, the leather strap cutting into his palms. His fingers were red from the strain.
“Liam, give it here.”
George held out his hand – big palm, smelling of engine oil, open in front of the boy.
Liam looked at the lead. Then at Buddy. Then at the lead again.
And slowly, he let go.
The woman took the lead and led Buddy down the corridor. The dog limped on his left hind leg, claws clicking on the tiles – a sound that echoed hollow because the corridor was long and empty. At the turn, Buddy looked back.
The woman turned the corner. The clicking faded, softer, softer. And stopped.
In the car on the way back, the boy sat behind the driver’s seat – where Buddy had lain ten minutes before. The upholstery still held the smell: warm fur, yard, autumn leaves. Liam pressed his cheek to the seat and closed his eyes.
Mary reached for the radio. George shook his head. We drove home in twenty minutes. Not a single word.
At home, Liam took off his shoes, walked past the kitchen, and shut himself in his room. The door clicked softly. Just closed.
Mary put away the empty bags, folded them neatly, and stuffed them into the bin. Then she saw the bowl.
A red plastic bowl with teeth marks around the rim. Buddy had chewed it as a puppy, before he learned bowls weren’t for that. Mary picked it up, held it. The plastic was light and smooth, the toothmarks rough under her fingers. She set the bowl back on the floor.
The next day we noticed oddities.
Liam didn’t ask what was for dinner. Didn’t turn on the telly. Didn’t take his homework out of his backpack. He came home from school, took off his shoes, and went to his room. Quiet as a shadow on the wall.
Mary knocked.
“Liam, pasta? With cheese, the way you like it.”
The bed creaked behind the door. Then nothing.
She stood at 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 was still visible on the wall from his first month.
On the fifth day, the teacher rang. Her voice was cautious, like someone stepping on thin ice.
“Is everything all right at home?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Liam doesn’t answer in class. At all. He sits and stares out the window. At break he stands alone by the wall. Children approach him; he says nothing.”
Mary bit her lip.
“We just… 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 in any words. Then the voice on the line said:
“I see.”
That “I see” hung in the flat all evening. Like the smell of paint not yet opened, but already there.
On the seventh day, Liam stopped coming to dinner. Mary put a plate out. Collected it untouched. The pasta went cold and developed a skin, and that was somehow unbearable.
George bought rollers and primer. Stripped the old wallpaper in the hallway. Underneath the walls were grey, with patches of old glue and a crack from floor to ceiling that the sailing boat picture used to hide. It smelled damp. It didn’t look pretty. And the silence wasn’t the kind he’d planned.
The red bowl still sat in the kitchen. Mary couldn’t remove it. Three times she picked it up, three times she put it back. On the fourth time she turned it upside down. Then put it back as it was.
One day, while Liam was at school, Mary went into his room to tidy.
On the desk lay a drawing.
A house with a triangular roof and a chimney with smoke coming out. Ordinary – the way all children draw. Next to it, a boy: stick legs, round head, arms out. And beside the boy, a ginger blob with four legs and a squiggle tail. The boy and the dog were drawn brightly, with red felt-tip and orange crayon, pressed hard so 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. Just 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 I will come.”
No comma. No full stop. A promise written by a hand that hadn’t yet learned to form straight letters.
The ring on her finger pressed so tight that Mary took it off. Placed it on the desk beside the drawing. And 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 about the fact that her son had drawn a house where she didn’t exist.
That evening, Mary placed the drawing in front of George. She didn’t explain. Just put it on the table, next to his plate.
He looked at it for a long time. Then pushed his plate aside.
“We’ll get him back.”
Mary blinked.
“Buddy. Tomorrow morning.”
And it was him who said it, not her. She had expected to have to argue, persuade, point at the drawing. But George looked 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.
The next morning we arrived at the shelter. The same metal door. The same smell of bleach and wet concrete. The woman came out to meet us, this time in a blue apron, but the same face.
Buddy recognised us from the doorway. He lunged at the kennel gate, whimpered, wagged his tail so hard his whole body shook. He had lost weight in those days: ribs showed through his ginger fur, and his left hind leg buckled more than before. He limped towards us faster than he could manage.
George took the lead. The same leather one, worn. His palm closed around the strap as if it belonged.
At home, Liam sat in his room. Door closed.
Claws clicked on the tiles in the hallway. Softly. Unevenly, with a skip every fourth step.
The bedroom door opened.
The boy stood in the doorway. Buddy rushed at him, nosed his stomach, licked his hand, his knee, his hand again. His tail beat against the wall.
Liam lowered himself to the floor. His fingers burrowed into the ginger fur that smelled of shelter, bleach, strangers. But beneath that was another smell – the old, true one, the one that always made something tighten under his ribs.
He spoke his first word in days:
“Buddy.”
Then he lifted his head. Looked at his mother. At his father.
Mary crouched beside him.
“Liam, love…”
He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t lean in either. He just sat on the floor, holding the dog, and looked at us as if seeing us for the first time. And not sure he recognised us.
Buddy licked the boy’s chin and calmed down. Lay beside 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, clicked his claws, began eating greedily, hurriedly. Liam sat beside him.
And George stood in the hallway where the stripped walls smelled damp and of old glue. The roller lay in the corner, covered in dust. The primer had dried in the can. The crack from floor to ceiling was still there.
From the kitchen came the sound of the bowl scraping the floor and the dog eating.
George stood and looked at the walls. The renovation hadn’t moved forward. And now it didn’t matter whether it did. Because in this house, there was something else that needed fixing.
