Michael is fourteen, and it feels as if the whole world is against himmore precisely, it refuses to understand him.
Ah, that troublemaker again! mutters Aunt Clara from the third landing, hurrying to the other side of the courtyard. A single mother raising him. No wonder this is the result!
Michael walks past, hands shoved into the pockets of his ripped jeans, pretending not to hear. He does hear, though.
His mother works late again. On the kitchen table lies a short note: Meatballs in the fridgeheat them up. The house is quiet. Always quiet.
Hes just left school, where teachers have once more had a word with him about his behaviour. As if he doesnt realise hes become a problem for everyone. He does. What does it change?
Hey, lad! calls Uncle Victor, the neighbour on the ground floor. Seen a limping dog around here? We should get it moving.
Michael stops and looks.
By the bins, a dog indeed lies there. Not a puppyan adult, ginger with white patches. Hes motionless, eyes tracking people. Sharp, sad eyes.
Someone should take him away! Aunt Clara adds. Hes probably sick!
Michael steps closer. The dog doesnt stir, only flicks his tail weakly. A torn wound on a hind leg bleeds darkly.
Whats the use? Victor snaps. Grab a stick and chase him off!
Something snaps inside Michael.
Dont you dare touch him! he snaps back, shielding the dog with his body. He isnt going to hurt anyone!
Victors eyebrows rise. Well, look at thatsomeones a protector.
Ill protect him! Michael sits beside the dog, extending a careful hand. The animal sniffs his fingers and gives a soft lick.
A warm rush fills Michaels chest. For the first time in ages, someone treats him kindly.
Come on, he whispers to the dog. Come with me.
At home, Michael fashions a makeshift bed from old jackets in the corner of his bedroom. Mother wont be back until the evening, so no one will shoo the infection away.
The wound looks bad. Michael hops online, finds articles on firstaid for animals, squinting at the medical jargon but memorising each step.
It needs a peroxide rinse, he mutters, rummaging through the household firstaid kit. Then iodine on the edgesgently, so it doesnt hurt.
The dog lies calmly, offering his injured paw. He looks at Michael with gratitude, something hes never seen directed at him before.
What should I call you? Michael asks while bandaging the leg. Youre gingermaybe Rusty?
The dog gives a low bark, as if agreeing.
His mother arrives that evening. Michael braces for a lecture, but she simply glances at Rusty, touches the bandage.
Did you do this yourself? she asks quietly.
Yeah. I found the instructions online.
What will you feed him?
Well figure something out.
She watches her son a long moment, then turns to the dog, who licks her hand affectionately.
Well take him to the vet tomorrow, she decides. See whats up with that leg. Have you thought of a name?
Rusty, Michael replies, hopeful.
For the first time in months, theres no wall of misunderstanding between them.
The next morning Michael rises an hour early. Rusty tries to stand, winced in pain.
Stay down, Michael soothes him. Ill bring you water and something to eat.
Theres no dog food left, so Michael crumbles his last meatball into milksoftened bread. Rusty devours it greedily but neatly, licking every crumb.
At school Michael manages to stay out of trouble with the teachers, his mind only on Rustywhether the leg hurts, whether hes lonely.
You seem off today, the form tutor notes.
Michael shrugs. He doesnt want to explainhed be laughed at.
After school he bolts home, ignoring the disapproving stares of neighbours. Rusty greets him with a wag, now able to stand on three legs.
Ready for a walk, mate? Michael says, tying a leash from a piece of rope. Take it easy on that leg.
In the yard something spectacular unfolds. Aunt Clara spots them and nearly drops her grocery bag.
Hes taken it home! Michael! Have you lost your mind?
Whats the big deal? Michael answers calmly. Im treating him. Hell get better.
Youre treating him? Where do you get the money? Stealing from mother?
Michael clenches his fists but holds back. Rusty leans against his leg, sensing his tension.
Im not stealing. Im using my own savingswhat Ive tucked away from breakfast money, he whispers.
Uncle Victor shakes his head. Kid, youre dealing with a living creature, not a toy. It needs food, medicine, walks.
Each day now starts with a walk. Rusty recovers quickly, almost running, though he still limps a little. Michael spends hours teaching him commands, patiently repeating.
Sit! Good boy! Give paw! Like that!
Neighbours watch from their windowssome shake their heads, others smile. Michael notices only Rustys devoted eyes.
He changes. Not instantly, but gradually. He stops being rude, helps around the house, his grades improve. He finally has a purpose, and its only the beginning.
Three weeks later the worst nightmare materialises.
Michael is out for an evening stroll with Rusty when a pack of stray dogs bursts from behind the garagesfive or six snarling, hungry beasts with eyes glowing in the darkness. The leader, a huge black dog, snarls and lunges forward.
Rusty instinctively backs up behind Michael. His leg still aches, making swift runs impossible. The pack senses his weakness.
Back! Michael shouts, whipping the leash. Get out of here!
The pack doesnt retreat; they circle. The black leader growls louder, ready to pounce.
Michael! a womans voice cries from above. Run! Throw the dog and get out of there!
Its Aunt Clara, leaning out of a window, a few other neighbours peeking from their flats.
Dont be a hero, lad! Uncle Victor yells. Hes limping; he wont get away!
Michael glances at Rusty. The dog trembles but stays glued to his owners side, ready to share any fate.
The black dog leaps first. Michael instinctively shields himself, but the bite lands on his shoulder. Sharp teeth tear through his jacket, scraping skin.
Despite his wounded leg, Rusty lunges at the leader, clamping his jaws onto the black dogs throat, hanging on with his whole body.
A frantic fight erupts. Michael kicks, punches, tries to keep Rusty out of the fangs. He receives bites and scratches but refuses to step back.
Lord, whats happening! Aunt Clara shouts from the window. Victor, do something!
Victor scrambles down the stairs, grabbing a garden fork and a length of rebaranything at hand.
Hold on, lad! he yells. Im coming!
Just as the pack overwhelms Michael, a familiar voice roars, Out of my way!
His mother bursts from the entrance with a bucket of water, dousing the attackers. The horde recoils, snarling.
Victor, help them! she commands.
Victor charges with the fork, and a few other residents pour down from the upper flats. Realising theyre outmatched, the stray dogs scatter.
Michael lies on the pavement, clutching Rusty. Both are covered in blood, shaking, but alive.
Love, his mother says, sitting beside him, gently checking his wounds. You gave me a proper scare.
I couldnt abandon him, Mum, Michael whispers. Did you understand? I just couldnt.
I do, she replies softly.
Aunt Clara steps into the yard, eyes wide, as if seeing Michael for the first time. Boy, you could have
It wasnt for the dog, Uncle Victor interjects. It was for a friend. You understand the difference, Clara?
She nods, tears glistening on her cheeks.
Lets get home, his mother says. We need to treat the injuriesyours and Rustys.
Barely able to stand, Michael lifts Rusty into his arms. The dog whines faintly, tail twitching, glad his owner is near.
Wait a moment, Uncle Victor calls. Will you take Rusty to the vet tomorrow?
We will, Michael answers.
Ill drive, Victor offers. And Ill cover the vet billsyour dogs a hero, after all.
Michael looks at him, surprised. Thanks, Uncle Victor. But I can pay back later.
Dont worry about it now. Were proud of you, arent we? Victor pats his shoulder. The neighbours nod silently.
A month passes. One October evening Michael returns from the veterinary clinic, where he now volunteers on weekends. Rusty runs beside him, his leg healed, the limp almost gone.
Michael! Aunt Clara calls, waving a bag. Hold on a sec!
He stops, expecting another lecture, but she hands him a bag of premium dog food.
Its for Rusty, she says, a little embarrassed. Good quality, pricey. You look after him so well.
Thanks, Aunt Clara, Michael replies earnestly. Ive got my own supply now. Im actually getting paid at the clinicDr. Anna Whitfield covers me.
Take it anyway, she insists. Youll need it later.
At home his mother prepares dinner. Seeing her son, she smiles.
Hows the clinic? she asks. Is Dr. Whitfield happy with you?
She says Ive got steady hands and patience, Michael says, patting Rustys head. Maybe Ill become a vet one day. Im serious about it.
How are your studies? she probes.
Fine. Even Mr. Patel from physics praised me for paying attention.
She nods. In the past month Michael has transformed completelyno longer rude, helping around the house, his grades climbing, greeting neighbours politely. He finally has a goal, a dream.
You know, she says, Victors coming tomorrow. He wants to offer you another sidejob at his friends breeding kennel. They need an assistant.
Really? Can I bring Rusty with me? Michael asks, eyes lighting up.
I think so. Hes practically a working dog now, she replies.
That night Michael sits in the yard with Rusty, practising a new commandguard. The dog follows dutifully, eyes fixed on his owner.
Uncle Victor joins him on the bench.
Tomorrow youll really be at the kennel? he asks.
Yes. With Rusty.
Then get some rest. Itll be a hard day.
Victor walks away, and Michael lingers a bit longer, feeling Rusty rest his head on his knee, sighing contentedly.
They have found each other. And they will never be alone again.