Returned from the shoot today in a foul mood. Kicked my boots off by the door—one left, one right. Threw my jacket at the hook, missed, left it there. Stormed into the kitchen and clattered the kettle.
Nancy sat in the living room scrolling through her phone. She heard my heavy footsteps, each one a complaint. Buster, our ginger Labrador, lay at her feet with his head on his paws, ears flat, tail still. He always knew when I was in a state and kept out of the way.
I stood in the doorway, hands on my hips, the way I do when I’m about to announce something final. “Right. That dog’s useless for shooting. I’ve trained him and trained him—nothing. Duck falls, he sits. Rabbit runs past, he yawns. He’s got to go.”
Nancy looked up, calm and steady, like she was watching a man say something foolish but hadn’t realised it yet. “Go?” she repeated, tasting the word.
“What else? Feed a freeloader? A gun dog should retrieve. This one…” I waved at Buster, who pressed closer to her leg. “I’ll take him to old Pete tomorrow. Maybe he’ll deal with it. If not, I’ll dump him on the motorway.”
“Dump him on the motorway.” Something clicked inside Nancy.
She stood up without a word. Buster followed, looking up at her anxiously. She walked past me to the hall, opened the cupboard, and pulled out a big blue suitcase on wheels—the same one we’d taken to Cornwall years ago, when we still went places together.
I watched but said nothing, figuring she was reorganising the seasonal stuff.
Instead, she opened my half of the wardrobe.
Shirts—one, two, three, four. Neatly. Underwear and socks into the side pocket. Jeans—one smart pair, one work pair. A grey jumper from Mum. My razor from the bathroom. Toothbrush.
I appeared in the bedroom doorway and stared for a moment. Then it dawned. “What are you doing?”
“Packing your suitcase,” she said in the same tone she used for “dinner’s in the oven” or “we’re out of milk.”
“What suitcase? Why?”
“You said we need to get rid of things. So I’m getting rid.”
I blinked. Then sat slowly on the edge of the bed, as if my legs had given way. “Over a dog?”
“Not over the dog. Over you.”
She zipped the case and straightened up. Buster padded in quietly and lay by the door, as if keeping watch.
“Let me tell you something, Gary, since we’re talking. You call Buster a freeloader. Can’t retrieve, no use. Let’s count who’s really useful around here.”
“Nancy, don’t start.”
“Buster doesn’t fetch ducks, true. But he greets me every morning like I’ve been gone six months. He puts a paw on my knee when I cry. And I cry a lot, Gary. Because you come home from work and stare at the telly. From the shoot you go straight to the sofa. Last proper conversation we had was about the electricity bill. Three sentences in a row was an event.”
I opened my mouth.
“You’re comparing me to a dog?”
“No. I’m stating facts. Buster is alive. He feels. He loves—unconditionally, for nothing. He doesn’t need me to be thin or cook borscht. He just needs me to be here. When’s the last time you were glad I exist?”
The silence hung heavy, like wet washing on a line.
I looked at the suitcase. Then at Nancy. Buster lifted his head and looked at me without anger or resentment—just looked. Dogs don’t hold grudges; their hearts are too big.
“I didn’t mean it properly,” I said. “Got carried away. The lads were laughing.”
“The lads laughed, so you decided to throw away a living creature that trusts you. That runs to you when you come home. He doesn’t know you’d dump him. He thinks you’re good.”
I rubbed my face. Stubble scratched; I hadn’t shaved in two days on the shoot.
“And the suitcase—are you serious?”
Nancy was quiet. Outside, sparrows squabbled in the rowan tree. The fridge hummed and fell silent.
“Serious, Gary. It’s not about Buster. He’s the last straw. You talk about a living thing like that—‘get rid of it,’ ‘dump it.’ What if I don’t suit one day? You get rid of me too? Drop me at Mum’s—‘here, she’s no use’?”
“That’s over the top.”
“You went over the top long ago. Stopped seeing that things around you are alive. I’m alive. Buster’s alive. We’re not tools. Not a gun you sell if it shoots crooked. We’re family. And you don’t throw family away.”
I sat there and felt something I hadn’t felt in ages. Before, I’d say something, Nancy would agree. Not because she was spineless—she used to hold her tongue, patiently, like a good wife. Smooth things over. I’d got used to talking any rubbish and getting away with it.
But not this time.
Buster came over and pushed his wet nose into my hand. Just because he saw I was struggling. When someone’s down, you stay close. Buster knew that—not by thought, but by instinct, his whole ginger hide.
I looked at the dog. At his wet nose, brown eyes, and the tail that gave a tentative wag—like, well, peace?
And something shifted. Not to tears—still a man. But something turned inside me, like a boat on a wave: dunk, and I was on the other side.
“Nancy. Put the suitcase away.”
“Why?”
“Because…” I stroked Buster’s head. “I’m a fool.”
“I know that. Question is—a fool who learns, or one you can’t knock sense into?”
I chuckled. Even now, she had a way.
“All right. I’m sorry. For Buster. And for everything.”
Nancy walked to the suitcase, unzipped it. Took out the razor and toothbrush, set them on the bedside table.
“You can hang your shirts yourself.”
I nodded. Leaned down to Buster and scratched behind his ear.
“So, freeloader,” my voice cracked. “We carrying on?”
Buster wagged his tail so hard he nearly knocked over the lamp. Jumped up, licked my nose. Then sat and looked at us both with that expression only dogs have: utter, undeserved happiness.
Next time I went shooting, Buster stayed home. I came back with two ducks and a bag of marrowbone treats from the market.
“Who are those for?” Nancy asked, though she knew.
“The freeloader,” I grunted. And smiled.
Nancy put the suitcase back in the cupboard. Not too far back, though—within easy reach.
Just in case.
What I learned today: you can’t measure a creature’s worth by what it retrieves. Some things—loyalty, love, presence—don’t fit in a game bag. And a man who mistakes his family for furniture might find himself packed away too.