Victor found him on the road in October.
A shivering, mudslicked pup sat on the shoulder of a country lane, eyes fixed on the passing cars as if waiting for someone specific. Victor was driving out to his allotment for potatoes, eased the clutch for a heartbeat, thinking hed just have a look. The little dog lifted its head, and in an instant everything changed. The potatoes stayed buried for another week.
He named him Mars. The name came from his neighbour, Ethel Hughes, who spotted the ginger, floppyeared creature with paws too big for its body in the hallway.
Reddish, nosy, a bit clumsy, she said, smiling. Marsfits him perfectly.
Victor laughed then.
Mars grew fast. By spring he claimed the entire left half of the couch, treating it as his rightful domain. Victor cursed at first, then stopped. Sleeping alone in the flat felt colder than sharing a bed with a dog that snored and occasionally twitched a paw in its sleep.
Their friendship didnt ignite instantly; it simmered, like two people who have nowhere urgent to be. Morning walks. A bowl of food at seven. The television. Sometimes Victor spoke aloud to Mars. Mars sat beside him, listening with a solemn stare, only yawning now and then, teeth flashing.
Youre right, Victor would say. Thats enough.
And he would switch the TV off.
***
The accident came in April, as they were returning from an evening stroll.
Victors memory of the moment is fuzzy. The road was slick, the car skidded onto the pavement, Mars was on a lead and the lead snapped. Victor was thrown against the curb, hit his side, lay there for a few seconds hearing only his own breath and a distant shout.
When he pushed himself up, Mars was gone.
The broken lead lay on the asphalt, its plastic clasp split cleanly in two.
Victor searched until midnight, combing three blocks, calling the pups name, questioning strangers. Passersby shook their heads. One man said hed seen a ginger dog dart toward the railway crossing about forty minutes earlier, but nothing beyond that.
Back home Victor sat at the kitchen table, staring at an empty bowl.
He rose, wrote a notice, printed twenty copies, and in the morning plastered them on every lamppost, every shop window. He phoned three veterinary practices and the shelter on Mill Lane.
If a ginger mixedbreed turns up, please call. Heres my number, he said.
A week passed.
A month. The flyers faded under May rain; Victor reposted them, and again in June. The clinics stayed silent. The shelter on Mill Lane called twice, each time by mistake, each time about a different dog.
In July Ethel Hughes, careful, spoke from behind the door:
Victor, maybe you could get another. The shelter has plenty.
No, Victor replied.
She never asked again.
The flat without Mars felt altered.
It wasnt empty; the fridge hummed, neighbours thumped upstairs at halfpast nine as always. Yet something had shifted.
Victor picked up an old rubber ball that Mars used to chase down the hallway. He placed it on a shelf, thought, shoved it into a drawer, then retrieved it again and left it there.
Each morning his hand reached reflexively for the lead by the door. The lead dangled. There was nowhere to go.
He began walking alone, same route, same time, just without Mars. He couldnt explain why; he simply walked.
In August his daughter called from Leeds.
Dad, come stay with us, have a break.
I cant.
Why?
He paused. Maybe hell come back.
She was quiet, then said, Alright, in that tone when someone wants to say more but holds back.
Mars returned in October.
Victor heard scratching at the front door just after eight in the evening. At first he thought it was his imaginationdrafts, stairwell noises, who knows. But the scratching persisted, deliberate, as if someone knew the door would open and just needed a moment.
He opened.
On the mat sat Mars.
He was older now. The coat was trimmed in places where wounds had healed. His left side bore a faint singe. Around his neck hung a collarforeign, brown leather, brass buckle, a small tag reading a single word: Buddy.
Victor stood in the doorway, watching. Mars stared back, one ear drooping, a ginger patch on his forehead shaped like a crooked star, the same amber eyes rimmed in dark.
Where have you been? Victor asked.
Mars rose, slipped across the threshold, moved through the hallway as if he knew every corner. He went right, toward his bowl. It was empty, of course.
Victor shut the door, went to the kitchen. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the fridge.
Alright, he whispered. Alright.
The next morning he drove to the veterinary clinic.
Mars was examined, given needed vaccinations, his microchip scanned. Victor asked about the collar. The vet lifted the tag and read aloud:
Buddy. Is that another name?
Someone gave him another name, Victor replied.
He lived with someone? the vet asked.
Half a year somewhere. I dont know where.
She looked at him, then at Mars, then back at Victor.
It happens, she said. Dogs sometimes wander off and later find their way backespecially the clever ones.
Victor said nothing, watching Mars sit on the metal table, calm, enduring the exam.
On the back of the tag was a phone number.
Victor called from his car while Mars sat in the back seat, eyes fixed on the window.
After three rings, a voice answered.
Hello?
Good afternoon, Victor said. You had a ginger dog you called Buddy.
A long pause.
Yes, a middleaged woman replied. He left us in September. Weve been looking for him.
Hes with me now. His name is Mars. He disappeared in April.
Silence. Then the woman spoke.
He lived with us. We fed him, treated his wounds.
Thank you, Victor said.
Hes a good dog.
Yes.
A pause.
Do you live far? she asked. From Birch Street?
Another area, Victor answered.
Oh dear. He turned up at our gate in April, just lay there and wouldnt move.
Victor stared out at the grey courtyard, leafless poplars swaying in the wind.
The call ended on its own. Victor put the phone away. Mars snored softly on the back seat, head resting on folded paws.
Back home Victor removed the foreign collar, set it on the table, and stared at it. Brown leather, brass tag reading Buddy. Wellmade, not cheap.
Half a year somewhere, and yet he came back.
Victor thought of the woman from Birch Street, how she had fed him each day, stroked him, likely grown attached, then in September she woke up and he was gone, searching, posting notices.
He dialed again.
Its me again, he said when she answered. If youd like to visit, Im happy.
Silence.
Really? she asked.
Really.
She arrived on Saturday. Eleanor Clarke, sixtyfour, in a grey coat, a shopping bag packed with apple jam and a sack of dog foodthe very ration Mars had grown accustomed to over those months.
Mars saw her from the hallway, didnt bolt. He padded over, nudged her hand with his nose, wagged his tail.
They shared tea. Eleanor recounted how shed found him by the gate in April, taken him to the vet, how frightened he was at first, then settled. Victor told of the crash, the snapped lead, the flyers.
Mars lay between them on the floor, dozing. Occasionally he lifted his head, watching each of them.
He chose us both, Eleanor said.
Victor looked at the dog, then at her.
Seems that way.
Victor placed the foreign collar in the desk drawer, not discarding it.
Mars again claimed the left side of the sofa and chased the ball down the hallway at night. The flyers on the lampposts soaked in November rain and peeled off on their own.
Eleanor visited each Saturday, bringing jam, sometimes asking advice about blackcurrants; she kept a garden on Birch StreetAs the evening light faded over the quiet street, Victor finally understood that home was no longer a house but the steady rhythm of his heart beating in time with Mars’ soft, trusting breaths.
