Barnaby
“Barnaby, come here, quick!” Vincent jumped out of the car and rushed to the dog lying by the roadside. But Barnaby didn’t stir, didn’t wag his tail. A searing realisation hit Vincent—his dog was gone. “What am I going to tell Mum?” he thought, crouching over Barnaby’s lifeless body as tears fell onto the old dog’s grizzled muzzle.
Valerie’s old collie had taken an instant dislike to her daughter-in-law, Rebecca. From the very first meeting, Barnaby would growl deep in his throat whenever she passed, thumping his tail nervously against the porch boards. Rebecca was wary of him—quietly resentful.
“Ugh, useless beast… If it were up to me, he’d have been put down long ago!” she’d mutter under her breath.
“Becca, don’t say things like that!” Vincent would chide. “Maybe it’s your perfume—or the click of your heels! He’s an old boy, and old dogs get set in their ways…”
Valerie would just watch disapprovingly. Little did that flighty miss know how much Barnaby had done. Far more than Rebecca ever had.
Valerie had always stayed out of her son’s life. Even when he introduced Rebecca, she’d held her tongue. Still, something about her didn’t sit right—a falseness. Her smile never reached her eyes.
“Mum, what do you think? She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Vincent had asked eagerly.
“You’re choosing your own wife,” Valerie had replied gently. “As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters. You have my blessing.” Then she’d hugged him tight and kissed his cheek.
After the wedding, the couple settled into Rebecca’s flat, inherited from her family. Vincent rarely visited his mother in the countryside—though he missed it—because Rebecca preferred comfort to cottages. But this summer, she’d suddenly taken to the idea of a rural retreat.
“I read online that eco-tourism is brilliant for stress. All that fresh air and simplicity—it’s the latest trend! Though it’s dreadfully overpriced… So I thought of your mum’s place,” she explained while packing.
Vincent was thrilled. If playing at country life meant seeing home again, he’d do it. His job allowed remote work, so he packed swiftly, and soon they were driving down the winding lane.
Valerie welcomed them warmly. “Finally, you’re here! A proper break will do you good—none of those garish package holidays.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Rebecca sniffed. “Valerie, do you have any livestock? Authentic rural living means full immersion.”
Valerie frowned but answered, “Barnaby, and a dozen hens. Had a goat once—poor thing passed last year.”
Rebecca eyed the old dog sprawled on the porch and curled her lip. “I meant useful animals. Not this pensioner. Surprised he’s still kicking, honestly.”
Valerie bristled. “Plenty of work in the veg patch! You can ‘immerse’ yourself there tomorrow.”
“Let’s start fresh in the morning,” Vincent cut in. “I’ll chop firewood, mend the fence—whatever you need, Mum. For now, we’ll turn in.”
He hauled the bags inside. Rebecca teetered after him, heels sinking into the dirt, muttering curses. As she reached the porch, Barnaby lifted his head with a low growl. She yelped, hiding behind Vincent, who ruffled the dog’s ears.
“Don’t take it to heart, lad,” Vincent murmured. “She doesn’t mean it.”
Barnaby thumped his tail—just happy to see his boy.
—
Next morning, Valerie led Rebecca to her modest holdings. “Hens, the orchard, blackcurrant bushes… And here’s the veg patch. Needs weeding badly.”
Rebecca floundered. Every green shoot looked the same.
“That’s a carrot. That? A weed. Yank it!” Valerie instructed.
“I know dandelions! The rest is just greenery!” Rebecca snapped.
She slogged on, sweating through her designer athleisure, nails ruined. After an hour, her back screamed for mercy.
“That’s enough!” she declared. “This isn’t wellness—it’s serfdom!”
Valerie sighed. “I’d meant to show you the hens next…”
“Tomorrow!” Rebecca shuddered. Limping inside, she found Barnaby blocking the porch. His teeth flashed in warning. She sidled past, trembling.
“That dog hates me!” she seethed later. “What if he bites?”
“Barnaby’s never bitten anyone!” Vincent said sharply. “You offended him.”
“Should I apologise to a mongrel?” she scoffed.
Valerie once suggested, “Try petting him. He’ll warm to you.”
“Humanise an animal? Madness!”
Barnaby’s instincts had been right, Valerie thought.
—
One sleepless night, Rebecca stepped outside to admire the stars. Silence—then rustling. A growl. She bolted—straight into a ditch, shrieking as nettles lashed her skin.
Vincent found her thrashing in the weeds, red and cursing.
“Why wander in the dark?” he groaned.
“Your ‘gentle’ dog tried to kill me!”
“He was guarding! Who knows what lurks at night?”
Rebecca seethed. Next day, she paid a local to take Barnaby away.
“Drive him far. If he survives, fine. If not—good riddance.”
The man pocketed the cash. Work was scarce; money didn’t stink.
—
The next morning, Valerie panicked. “Vincent, where’s Barnaby? He never strays far!”
They searched all day. No trace.
Valerie crumpled onto the porch, weeping. “He wasn’t just a dog. If not for him… Vincent, lift your shirt—remember those scars?”
“From a childhood burn, you said.”
“A fire. You were five. I was at work; Gran was watching. Barnaby dragged you out unconscious—a beam had struck your head. Gran didn’t make it. You forgot… I didn’t.”
Vincent paled. “I’ll find him.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes and slipped inside.
Vincent cornered her. “Tell me what you did.”
She cracked. A farmer, paid to dump Barnaby.
Vincent tracked the man down, paid him again for directions.
They found Barnaby by the roadside. Still. Motionless.
“Tough old boy,” the farmer muttered. “Walked miles from where I left him.”
Vincent cradled Barnaby’s body, tears splashing onto grey fur.
Valerie wailed when she saw Barnaby wrapped in Vincent’s coat. They buried him under the apple tree by the porch. Rebecca watched, baffled.
“You’re heartbroken over a dog?”
Vincent packed her bags in silence, drove her to the station.
“When will you be back?” she demanded.
“I don’t know,” he said, hollow. “Or if I will.”
—
By summer’s end, Vincent filed for divorce. Rebecca didn’t care—she’d moved on. He returned to the countryside, stopping first at a shelter.
“You’re sure about this pup? He’ll be big—not a flat dog.”
“Positive.” Vincent lifted the squirming collie. “He’ll have a garden, a cosy home, and a sunny porch to sprawl on.” The pup licked his cheek. “Good lad, Barnaby.”
