I first came across the little pup on an autumn road back in October.
He was huddled on the verge of the A road, drenched and barely a few weeks old, watching the passing traffic as if waiting for someone specific. I was on my way to the country house to fetch some potatoes, slowed down for a moment, thinking the beast might just look at me and trot off. But the pup lifted his head, and that was the end of my plans. The potatoes stayed in the ground for another week.
I christened him Mars. The name came from Mrs. Margaret Brown, the neighbour who spotted the gingereyed, floppyeared creature in my hallway.
Redmuzzled, nosy, a bit clumsy, she said, Mars. It suits him.
I laughed then.
Mars grew like a weed. By spring he was claiming the whole left side of the sofa as his kingdom, and he thought that was perfectly reasonable. At first I scolded him, then I stopped. Sleeping alone in a flat was worse than sharing it with a dog that snored and occasionally kicked his legs in his sleep.
We didnt become friends overnight; it happened gradually, the way strangers become mates when theres no hurry. A morning walk. A bowl of food at sevenoclock. The telly. Sometimes Id talk aloud to Mars. Hed sit beside me, listening with a solemn stare, only yawning now and then, baring his teeth in a lazy grin.
Youre right, Id say. Enough of that. And Id switch the TV off.
***
The accident came in April as we were returning from an evening stroll.
I cant recall the details clearly. The road was slick, the car skidded onto the pavement at a corner, Mars was on his leash and the strap snapped. I was flung onto the curb, hit my side, lay there for a few seconds hearing only my own breathing and a distant shout.
When I pulled myself up, Mars was gone.
The leash lay on the asphalt, the plastic clip split in two.
I searched until midnight, combing three blocks, calling his name, asking passersby. They shook their heads. One lad said hed seen a red dog dart toward the railway crossing about forty minutes earlier, but nobody else had.
Back home I sat in the kitchen staring at an empty bowl.
Later I got to my feet, wrote a notice, printed twenty copies, and stuck them up around the neighbourhood the next morning. I also rang three local vets and the shelter on Willow Street.
If a red mixedbreed dog turns up, please call me, I told the person on the other end. Heres my number.
A week slipped by.
Then a month. The flyers faded under Mays drizzle, so I repasted them. I did it again in June. The vets stayed silent. The Willow Street shelter called twice, each time by mistake it wasnt our dog.
In July Mrs. Margaret leaned out of her flat doorway and said cautiously,
Victor, perhaps youd consider taking another one? There are plenty at the shelter.
No, I replied.
She didnt press the matter again.
The flat felt different without Mars.
It wasnt empty, just unchanged. The fridge hummed, the upstairs neighbours thumped about halfpast nine as usual, but something had shifted.
I picked up an old rubber ball that Mars used to chase down the hallway, set it on the shelf, then tucked it into a drawer, only to pull it out again later and leave it on the shelf.
Each morning my hand reached for the leash by the door out of habit. The leash hung there, unused. I didnt need to go anywhere.
I started walking the same route at the same hour, only without Mars. I couldnt explain why I just kept moving.
In August my daughter called from Manchester.
Dad, come and stay with us for a while, have a break.
I cant, I said.
Why?
I hesitated, then answered, Just in case he comes back.
She was quiet, then said Alright in that tone people use when theyre holding back something else.
Mars turned up in October.
I heard a scratching at the front door just after eight in the evening. At first I thought it was the wind or a stray draft, but the sound persisted, steady, as if someone knew the door would open and was willing to wait.
I opened it.
There, on the mat, sat Mars.
He was older now. His coat was clipped in spots where old wounds must have been, the left side of his muzzle a little scarred. Around his neck hung a leather collar, brown with a brass buckle and a tiny tag that read a single word: Buddy.
I stood in the doorway, staring. Mars looked back at me, his right ear flopped, a ragged amber star on his forehead, the same amber eyes framed by dark lashes.
Where have you been? I asked.
Mars rose, padded across the threshold, and trotted down the hallway like a man who knew every corner of his house. He headed straight for his bowl empty, as always.
I shut the door, shuffled into the kitchen, my hands trembling as I opened the fridge.
Alright, I muttered. Alright.
The next morning I drove to the veterinary practice.
They examined Mars, gave him the necessary vaccinations, checked his microchip. I asked about the foreign collar. The vet lifted the tag and read aloud, Buddy. She looked at me, then at Mars, then back at me.
Someone gave him a different name, I said.
Hed lived with someone else for about six months, she replied. I dont know where.
She studied us both a moment longer.
It happens, she said. Dogs sometimes wander off and later find their way back, especially the clever ones.
I said nothing, watching Mars sit on the metal table, calm, as the vet did his work.
On the back of the tag was a phone number. I dialed it from the car while Mars rested on the back seat, his head resting on his paws, eyes fixed on the road.
A voice answered after three rings.
Hello?
This is Victor. You had a red dog, called Buddy?
There was a long silence.
Yes, said a middleaged womans voice. He left us in September. Wed been looking for him.
Hes with me now. His names Mars. He went missing in April.
Silence again, then the woman said,
He was with us. We fed him, treated his wounds.
Thank you, I replied.
Hes a good dog.
Okay.
A pause.
Do you live far? she asked. From Birch Street?
Some other area, I said.
My goodness. He turned up at our gate in April, just lay there and never left.
I looked out at the grey, leafless park beyond the car windows, the bare poplars swaying.
The conversation faded on its own. I put the phone away. Mars snored softly on the back seat, his head tucked between his forepaws.
Back home I slipped the strangers collar off him and laid it on the table, staring at the brown leather and the word Buddy. It was wellmade, not cheap.
Six months with another family, and hed still found his way back.
I thought of the woman from Birch Street, how shed fed him daily, petted him, grown attached, then watched him disappear in September and spend weeks putting up notices.
I called her again.
Its me again, I said when she answered. If youd like to visit him, Im happy to arrange it.
Silence.
Really? she asked.
Really.
She turned up on a Saturday. Galina Petrov, sixtyfour, in a grey coat, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder holding apple jam and a sack of dog food the very food Mars had grown used to over those months.
Mars saw her from the hallway, didnt bolt. He trotted over, nudged her hand with his nose, wagged his tail enthusiastically.
They sat with tea. Galina recounted how shed found him by the gate in April, taken him to the vet, nursed his early fright, and eventually got him settled. I told her about the crash, the broken leash, the flyers Id plastered everywhere.
Mars lay between us, dozing. Occasionally hed lift his head, glance at one of us, then the other.
He chose us both, Galina said.
I looked at the dog, then at Galina.
Seems thats the case.
I put the foreign collar back into the drawer not thrown away.
Mars reclaimed the left half of the sofa and, at the odd hour, chased his ball down the corridor. The flyers on the lampposts soaked in November rain and peeled off on their own.
Galina visited each Saturday, bringing jam, sometimes asking for advice about the blackcurrants she grew in her garden on Birch Street, while I chatted about my own gardening attempts. Their conversation continued as Mars napped between them.
One evening I pulled the leather Buddy collar from the drawer, held it up. The tag glittered in the lamp light.
Two leashes hung by the entrance hall: a faded red one, and a bright blue one Galina had left behind on a recent Saturday, hanging there without me asking.
And thats how life settled back into its familiar rhythm, with Mars once more occupying my sofa, my kitchen, and my heart.
