Victor Brown found the little thing on the road back in October.
A tiny, shivering puppy was curled up on the verge of the Aroad, eyes glued to the passing traffic as if waiting for someone he knew. Victor was on his way to the cottage up in Kent to fetch some potatoes, slowed for a heartbeat, thinking the dog would just stare and then trot off. But the pup lifted its head, and that was that the potatoes stayed in the ground a week longer.
He called him Mars. The name came from his neighbour, Vera Thompson, whod popped over when she saw the orangeeyed, floppyeared creature with legs that seemed a size too small.
Redcoated, nosy, a bit clumsy, she said, laughing. Mars. Thatll do.
Victor chuckled.
Mars shot up fast. By spring he was hogging the whole left side of the sofa and acted as if he owned it. At first Victor scolded him, then he just gave up. Sleeping alone in the flat was far worse than sharing the bed with a snoring dog that occasionally thumped a paw in its sleep.
Their friendship didnt spark instantly it grew slowly, like two people who have nowhere urgent to be. Morning walks, dinner bowl at seven, the telly on in the background. Sometimes Victor would chat aloud to Mars, who sat there with a solemn look, only yawning now and then and flashing all his teeth.
Youre right, Victor would say. Enough of that. And hed switch the TV off.
—
The accident came in April on the way back from an evening stroll.
Victor cant quite recall the details the road was slick, the car skidded onto the pavement at the corner, Mars was on the lead and it snapped. Victor was flung onto the curb, hit his side, lay there a few seconds hearing only his own breathing and a distant shout.
When he scrambled up, Mars was gone.
The leash lay on the tarmac, its plastic clasp split in two.
He searched until midnight, covering three streets, calling the pups name, asking anyone he passed. Most just shook their heads. One passerby mentioned seeing a ginger dog dash toward the railway crossing about forty minutes earlier, but that was the last anyone had seen him.
Back home Victor plonked himself into the kitchen and stared at the empty bowl for a long while.
Then he got up, typed up a notice, printed twenty sheets, and plastered them on every lamppost and notice board in the neighbourhood. He rang three local vet practices and the animal shelter on Factory Street.
If a reddish mixedbreed turns up, please give me a call. Heres my number, he told the receptionist.
A week slipped by. Then a month. The flyers faded under the May rain, so Victor replaced them. He did it again in June. The vets stayed silent. The shelter called twice, each time by mistake it wasnt the dog theyd taken in.
In July Vera nudged him from the doorway: Victor, maybe youd consider another dog? The shelters full of them.
No, Victor replied, and she didnt press the issue again.
The flat felt different without Mars. Not empty, exactly, but everything seemed a little off. The fridge kept humming, the neighbours above started their morning footfalls at half past nine as usual, yet something had shifted.
Victor dug an old rubber ball the one Mars used to chase down the hallway off the floor, set it on the shelf, then tucked it into a drawer, only to pull it out again later and leave it on the shelf.
Every morning his hand reached for the leash by the door out of habit. The leash still hung there, though there was nowhere to go.
He started taking the same walks alone, at the same time, along the same route, even though he couldnt say why. He just walked.
In August his daughter, Emily, called from Manchester.
Dad, come over. Stay with us for a bit, have a breather.
I cant, Victor said.
Why not?
He paused. Maybe hell come back.
Emily was quiet for a heartbeat, then gave a soft Alright, the sort of sigh that says theres more she doesnt want to say.
Mars turned up in October.
Victor heard a scratching at the front door just after eight in the evening. At first he thought it was the wind or a stray footstep, but the noise kept coming, patient, as if whoever was behind it knew the door would open eventually.
He opened it.
There, on the mat, sat Mars.
Hed aged a touch. The coat was trimmed in a few spots where old wounds must have been, his left side bore a faint scar, and around his neck hung a leather collar, brown with a brass buckle and a tiny tag that read Buddy.
Victor stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the dog. Mars stared back, right ear drooping, a ragged orange patch on his forehead shaped like a crooked star, the same amber eyes framed by dark lashes.
Where have you been? Victor asked.
Mars hopped inside, trotted straight to his bowl empty as always and settled down.
Victor shut the door, shuffled to the kitchen, his hands trembling as he opened the fridge.
Alright, he muttered to himself. Alright.
The next morning he drove to the local vet.
They gave Mars a checkup, the needed shots, and scanned his microchip. Victor asked about the leather collar. The vet lifted the tag and read aloud, Buddy. Thats another name?
Someone must have retagged him, Victor replied. Hes lived somewhere else for a while, I guess.
The vet glanced between Victor and Mars, then said, It happens. Dogs wander off and sometimes they find their way back, especially the clever ones.
Victor didnt answer, just watched Mars sit on the stainless table, unperturbed by the examination.
On the back of the tag was a phone number. Victor dialed it from the car while Mars lounged on the back seat, his head resting on his paws.
After a few rings, a voice answered.
Hello, Victor said. You had a dog, a reddish one you called Buddy.
There was a long pause. A womans voice, a little worn, finally spoke. Yes, that was him. He left us in September. Weve been looking for him ever since.
Hes with me now. His names Mars. He disappeared in April.
Silence stretched, then the woman said, He was with us for about six months. We fed him, tended his wounds.
Thank you, Victor said.
Hes a good dog.
Indeed.
A moment later she asked, Are you far from Birchwood Street?
Just another neighbourhood, Victor replied.
Oh dear, she sighed. He turned up at our gate in April, just lay there and never got up again.
Victor stared out the windscreen at the grey, leafless park across the road.
The call ended. He put the phone away. Mars let out a soft whine, then rested his head on his folded legs.
Back home Victor slipped the foreign collar off and set it on the dining table, staring at the brown leather and the shiny tag. It was wellmade, not cheap.
The dog had spent half a year elsewhere, yet hed found his way back.
Victor thought of the lady from Birchwood Street, how shed fed and petted him every day, how shed called out for him in September and never got a reply.
He picked up the phone again.
Its me again, he said when she answered. If youd like to visit him, Im happy to arrange it.
Silence. Really?
Really.
She turned up on Saturday Gillian Parker, sixtyfour, bundled in a grey coat, a basket of apple jam and a sack of dog biscuits in hand, the very treats Mars had grown to love over those months.
Mars saw her from the hallway, didnt bolt, just padded over and nudged his nose into her palm, tail wagging like a metronome.
They shared tea. Gillian talked about finding Mars by the fence in April, ferrying him to the vet, his early fear and eventual settling in. Victor recounted the crash, the snapped lead, the countless flyers.
Mars sprawled between them on the floor, dozing, occasionally lifting his head to watch one of them.
He chose us both, Gillian said.
Victor looked at the dog, then at Gillian. Seems thats the case.
He tucked the foreign collar back into the desk drawer, not throwing it away.
Mars reclaimed the left half of the sofa, still chasing that rubber ball down the hallway at the witching hour. The flyers on the lampposts had long since peeled off in the November drizzle.
Gillian kept coming on Saturdays, bringing jam, asking for advice on planting blackcurrants she tended a small garden on Birchwood Street, and Victor had started dabbling in his own plot. They chatted while Mars snoozed between them.
One evening Victor pulled the leather Buddy collar from the drawer, held it up under the kitchen light. The tag glinted.
Two leashes hung by the entryway: an old red one, frayed at the ends, and a fresh blue one Gillian had dropped off on a recent Saturday, hanging there without any question asked.
And thats how life settled back into its odd, comfortable rhythm, with Mars back where he belonged, and a few extra threads woven into the tapestry of the flat.